Doubt me, believe me
by Viladis
Summary: In 1986, a young muggle seduced by her curiosity stumbled into a pure blood wizard and his animal companion. Curiosity, altruism and kindness met rage, hatred and exhaustion. The meeting that should not have been will call upon its retribution many fold in the years to come.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters (except OCs), only my interpretation of them. The things happening in this story may sometimes in some way follow canon. Forgive my English as it is not my strongest and most fluent language, so please alert me of any mistakes you see in the story. In the hopes of making this story smoother, I have thought to keep everything written here in English as well as all _personally_ created spells to be in English, and they are translated to the best of my abilities alongside many help from Google Translate.

Warning: As a whole fic, there will be mentions of torture, castration, (implied) rape, drugs, underage sex trade, child trafficking. Be warned. Do not read if you will be triggered.

A/N: Thank you for your support, and the reviews and questions that have helped me in crafting the rewrite. This time, I hope the fic answers more questions and leaves you with much less confusion.

This chapter has not undergone any rewrite.

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 _It is not when and where you start your journey, nor how you embarked on it that defines you. It is how you end it that truly defines all that you are._

1998

Conquerors, Kings and Queens, they may go down in history and their impressive feats and stories spun and retold over the generations. These are the people who can be considered small fish in an ocean of infinite possibilities, but not me. Never me. I am no one in the grand scheme of things, just an infinitely small and easily replaceable pawn. I am the puppet acting out the whims and fancies of my puppeteer, and completely surrendering to his ascendancy. Sometimes, he may yank a little too hard on the strings that keep me standing; and sometimes, he may gently tug on them if only to bait me to lower my guards. However, the best days are sometimes the ones when he leaves me neglected and ignores my existence – those days, I pretend I am just another toy in a toy shop and not a servant waiting on the hand and foot of his master.

On the days that I play pretend, I would melt into the crowds and listen to the storytellers. Among them, there are those who are spirited and righteous, young and innocent, committed and unshakable, feisty and authentic, wise and grounded, and some who simply believe they are ubermensch. In each of them, they regaled me with the tales of their heroism and hardihood, and the villainous and cowardly ways of their enemies, yet the only things I hear are the traits they praise and decry. It is these memories that I remember the clearest for they present me the greatest riddle: do each of them come into their stories with their predisposed ideas of the righteous and wicked, the lawful and criminal, the licit and forbidden, or are these ideas formed whilst on their journey? Perhaps, one day, if the sun chooses to shine its radiant light on me, I might uncover the answer.

I see no reason to impose my ideas on anyone. I am different from you, as you are to me and to the next person. We are all different to varying degrees, and that difference is a complexity that I fully embrace. Alas, not everyone can appreciate that beauty, and they foist their ideas on others or at the very least, condemn those who are not with them. Those who recklessly and forcefully thrust their ideals are truly not the worst monsters, for it is those who judge and curse behind closed doors that are the greatest liars who sing the most lyrical hypocrisy of tolerance and acceptance. You are not wrong to think I am a humble and accepting; your conclusion would be acceptable considering all that I have spoken thus far. However, I am not kind enough to allow you to live your fantasies and so, I will destroy your bubble – I am the worst monster there is. I am a reprobate. I am conniving and heartless. Above all, I am nobody. I am just a puppet with a canvas for a face – I have multiple faces of which none is mine.

 _I am everybody and yet nobody._

"You can tell your father you did well when you see him."

I feel the corners of my lips twitching but I know it is impossible for it to stretch to a grimace, never mind my signature smirk. The speaker said that, yet I do not agree but it is hard to make sound. They probably got to my throat earlier on or perhaps it is just Death taking me apart slowly, starting with my voice. My father? The old man died and buried six feet under a long time ago. Too long ago that I cannot remember his face. Who am I kidding? Remembering his face is the least of my problems, not having done anything worthy is the problem. I have no heroic act to regale him with. In my dark chest of wonders, I have an impressive wand and robes that are forever splattered with crimson, and no rain may ever wash it out. I have an archive of curses and hexes, and charms and healing spells that I developed; none that I am proud of, and yet none that I regret. Perhaps, he might enjoy my description of the malodour of blood and decay. Would a ghost enjoy knowing that his spawn ended more lives than three-fold of his age at death? I suppose it would be wise not to hold my breath on it but I will not lie. Not now, not ever. I would regale anyone and everyone about all the lives I offed starting from James Williamson in the winter of my third year in Hogwarts, and end with the execution of Fred Weasley in the winter of my six and forty years. I am an executioner. I am a murderer. I am ruthless and disingenuous. This is my role, and if the speaker is proud of my achievement, I suppose I can have some solace that a _nobody_ has accomplished his mission.

"You defended your ideals to the end. You have fulfilled your duty."

Ah, so perhaps living authentically is what the speaker meant by a duty done well done. You must forgive me for my rambling earlier on. It seems as if my mind has started to ebb and run from me. It must be time soon for Death to fetch me but while I am _still_ here, I will continue to speak against the speaker. Living authentically is not a duty of mine, it is a choice of mine. It is perhaps one of the only few choices my master allows me. Perhaps by this, I am correct in my earlier deductions that the speaker continues to talk about my talent in rolling up the numbers of the dead and tearing families apart. It must be my competence in mixing chicanery and subterfuge in my deeds, my ruthlessness to deceive and cozen friends and foes alike, and my latent talent to decimate and annihilate. Oh dear, what kind of life have I been living for six and forty years? A tad too late to regret even if I even want to, but I suppose I am far too arrogant to regret any of my choices. Are you perhaps now convinced that I am not just a prevaricator but a monster of one of the worst kinds, if not the very worst? Perhaps, I am the nightmare that keeps adults awake and in infinite fear, and the bogeyman that makes children scream endlessly. That would be a… praise worth carving into my tombstone if any of my fans would like to pay homage to Nightmare in Flesh. Fittingly malevolent. Terribly truculent. _Just perfect._

"Validus, I am sorry."

 _Validus…_ That is my name. There is only one person who still walks among the living that would call me by that name. My oldest friend. My first friend. Who knew that the same person would be the one staying with me until Death finally takes all of me? Certainly not me. My friend who had always been by my side since we met in King Cross Station on the nine and three quarters platform. From then, orphans that we are, even the difference in houses could not part us. Together, we worked for the same goal on the same side until… just a season ago. Perhaps the adage that there will always be a first do happen to even the most stubborn and trying of circumstances. In fact, I, myself, in the fading seconds of my life have just pulled a lie for the first time.

"I forgive you."

"They won't forget your story and sacrifice, _I promise_."

"I know."

"You will always be my brother and my fondest friend."

"You too."

"Rest in peace, _Antonin Validus Dolohov._ "

I smile.

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Please review. Thank you.


	2. Chapter 1

A/N: This chapter has not undergone much rework. A little polishing and changed a few things based on the PMs and reviews I received; but nothing major that requires revisiting.

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1981 - 1985

In Azkaban, they said there were only five floors but they lied. Buried far below the fifth floor, hidden within the dungeon labyrinth was the sixth floor; and where time was a near impossible element to measure. It was the level where only the most rash and bold of aurors would willingly venture if only to gloat and flaunt their sense of superiority and moral righteousness to the residents of this floor, yet none of these Aurors would spend longer than an hour on a bounce. The small handful of prisoners of this level had been sentenced to a judgement worse than death; it was Hell on Earth. It was also believed that only the most avid of followers of the fallen Dark Lord, He Who Must Not Be Named, were condemned to a life sentence in that prison for their crimes were undeniably diabolical and should never be pardoned; yet the most chilling nature of these criminals was their overwhelming pride while performing their atrocities. It was clear even during each of their trial that they were far from repentant – some were drunk on glee and malice, while others remained very prideful and arrogant that they would have made some of the most prideful of muggle Kings humble. It was under these circumstances that the Minister had decreed, with the support of the members of the prestigious Wizengamot, that the most loyal followers of the fallen dark wizard be tortured for their iniquitous acts because death, as the righteous and upright ministry agreed, would be far too merciful for souls as black and deranged as theirs.

* * *

 _"Antonin Dolohov, you have been found guilty of 450 counts of murder, not excluding the aggravated capital murders of Fabian and Gideon Prewett, 1, 895 counts of attempted murder, seven counts of aggravated assault, three counts of terrorist carnage of which two were on the Muggle Britain, and 150 counts of using the unforgivable spells. Do you plead guilty?"_

 _"Not interested." Dolohov sat in the middle of the court, his posture straight but relaxed, his arms folded across his chest, and a most indifferent expression on his face. He was the picture of pride and an unshakable belief that he was far from wrong. Even while he was awaiting his judgment, Dolohov was unfazed and not repentant. Nobody in the court doubted for a moment that he would still have done what he did even if time should rewind._

 _Minister Bagnold glared down at him from her perch as she read his sentence. "For the first-degree murders, you are sentenced to 30 years for each charge, and in addition to the 1, 895 counts of attempted murder, you are sentenced to 25 years for each charge, and you are sentenced to 5 years for each count of assault. On top of that, you are sentenced to 50 years for each count of terrorist carnage, and a further 15 years for each count of unforgivable spell used. Lastly, for belonging to the terrorist group, you are sentenced to 20 years. From the fifth year of your sentence onwards, you will only be granted a visitor every fourth month of the year. Aurors, take him away."_

 _"You should have simply sentenced me to life without parole," Dolohov deadpanned as he allowed the aurors to drag him away to Azkaban._

He shuddered awake and blinked his eyes. The hair on his skin were standing, the usual sign of dipped temperatures which only meant that those ghastly beings were patrolling the corridors. A sigh escaped in a wisp of white smoke as his ears began their duty of listening to the Symphony of Beautiful Madness. It would always start with a howling somewhere from the West, and it would meet the humming of the East. Later, there would be moans and cries overriding the allegro with the occasional thunder of curses. It would then seem as if this was the perfect incantation to awaken the most charming of all women: Bellatrix Lestrange from her slumber. Her slurs of cackles would echo loudest from wherever she was held, and every bark of laughter would be replied by a beg for death and mercy somewhere down the corridor, and all the previous musical sounds would fade to background while the chortle would challenge the pleas, for supremacy to lead the symphony. The battle would go on for a while before the other elements returned to the fray and Dolohov would move his hands as if he were the conductor. When at last he stopped his hands, and allowed them to drop dramatically, the Symphony of Beautiful Madness would end and a pin drop could be heard. Slowly as a true conductor, Dolohov would turn to face the bars of his cell and take a deep bow.

 _Every cycle would start with the memory of the sentence, and transited into the symphony._

The silence would stretch on before elements of the symphony would star in their own melody, and Dolohov, in his silence, would pace his tiny cell that was not even as wide as his height – it was only a meter and half! He would wonder if any of them were still there, if any resemblance of their… _youth_ still lived on or had all of them gone with the wind. Sometimes, he wondered if every waking shudder was a step closer to tipping over the edge, and perhaps one day, he would finally take the plunge and be one and the same as her. Insanity had never been picky on its host. It was perhaps, one of the most non-prejudiced elements in a world so judgmental. Dolohov sighed and flopped onto his pathetic excuse for a cot – a skin thin quilt with holes as large as his fist.

 _And now, the misery of an identity slowly slipping away._

Dolohov dragged his shackled legs to him and rested his head on his knees and allowed himself to grieve his declining mind. With nothing tangible to occupy it, Dolohov always almost wanted to die. For someone who pride on his genius and brilliance of mind, to be unable to access and feel its greatness was a misery of one of the acutest kind. Sometimes, he wept his loss and in these moments, he would remember the innocence he once possessed. "I am Antonin Vasily Dolohov. I am conceived from the love shared between Ivanov Dolohov and Calina Dolohov (nee Alexeev)," he breathed his origins with as much conviction as he could muster to chase the neediness of wanting to perish. He reiterated to himself his biography as a holding faith and prayer to remind himself of his own person and greatness. "I am Antonin Vasily Dolohov, a member of his innermost circle, and he trusts me. I am useful. _I have to be_."

Dolohov felt his weak resolve hardening as he whispered his prayer. He was not a young helpless whelp who was uncertain of his place in the world. That curious boy who was too easily seduced by all knowledge in the world had died long ago in Koldovstoretz Wizarding Academy. That boy was gone when his parents were trialed guilty for treason and made into public examples. In place of the despaired boy, a young man was born to clear the stain of his family and cast judgment on those who had accused him and his family of lese-majesty, and wrongfully exiled the remaining Dolohov from Mother Russia. Alone, with only the power of his name and blood purity, the man found his salvation in an older man and after that, everything was history. The older man had groomed Antonin Dolohov into the merciless killing machine. Nobody knew the true middle name of Antonin Dolohov the Death Eater; they simply bestowed him the name: Tormentor.

When Dolohov reopened his eyes, they no longer look haunted and dull but burnt with unquenchable rage and hatred. They, who endeavored to rip and destroy his most precious gift, persevered to snuff out his flame of life, and tried to seduce him to leave his Dark Lord for the arms of Death, would suffer his grievances. He would not allow himself to be their marionette, he would not be tamed and do as they command.

 _They would not own him. Never._

They would all pay the price for their folly and his esteemed Dark Lord would rise again and lead them to a new age. Each of those foolish soul who tried to condemn him, Dolohov would look down on them from his perch. He and his brethren would sit in the chairs of those Wizengamot members, and with their Dark Lord in his rightful throne, they would condemn all of them to a Hell worse than this – they would be stripped off their magic and forced to die in here. "One day," he promised as his tongue slipped to lick his lips, "they will beg; and no God or Merlin will save them. They will rue the day their tried to destroy me. Until the Dark Lord returns, I will live patiently in this cycle."

 _I must live._

* * *

April 1986

 _"Antonin Dolohov, you have been found guilty of 450 counts of murder, not excluding the aggravated capital murders of Fabian and Gideon Prewett, 1, 895 counts of attempted murder, seven counts of aggravated assault, three counts of terrorist carnage of which two were on the Muggle Britain, and 150 counts of using the unforgivable spells. Do you plead guilty?"_

 _"Not interested." Dolohov sat in the middle of the court, his posture straight but relaxed, his arms folded across his chest, and a most indifferent expression on his face. He was the picture of pride and an unshakable belief that he was far from wrong. Even while he was awaiting his judgment, Dolohov was unfazed and not repentant. Nobody in the court doubted for a moment that he would still have done what he did even if time should rewind._

 _Minister Bagnold glared down at him from her perch as she read his sentence. "For the first-degree murders, you are sentenced to 30 years for each charge, and in addition to the 1, 895 counts of attempted murder, you are sentenced to 25 years for each charge, and you are sentenced to 5 years for each count of assault. On top of that, you are sentenced to 50 years for each count of terrorist carnage, and a further 15 years for each count of unforgivable spell used. Lastly, for belonging to the terrorist group, you are sentenced to 20 years. From the fifth year of your sentence onwards, you will only be granted a visitor every fourth month of the year. Aurors, take him away."_

 _"You should have simply sentenced me to life without parole," Dolohov deadpanned as he allowed the aurors to drag him away to Azkaban._

For the umpteenth time since he began his stay in the tiny hole, Antonin Dolohov shuddered awake again. He blinked once, twice and frowned. Something was happening, the silence should not have arrived so soon. Where was the symphony? Where was the icy wind? It was unlikely he slept through it all. That was his normal. That was his routine. That was his only grasp of time and sanity! Dolohov stood up from his sitting-sleeping spot, took calming breaths while he surveyed his cell suspiciously. At last, he turned to the metal bars that separate him from his freedom. A sneering auror stood there, flanked by three others, and Dolohov's impassive mask fell naturally over his face.

"Get out now, dipshit," an auror, likely to be the leader, snarled as he yanked on the cuffs on Dolohov's hands, dragging the thin man out of his hole. When the metal bars were slammed shut again, the sound echoed through the walls of the dungeon and Dolohov winced and refused to move. He would flex whatever was left of his pride and dignity. He would not be manhandled and ordered by a team of fresh graduate sods. _The boys_ were still wet behind their ears, and if they dueled him, there was absolutely no way they would oust him… unless Dolohov, who teetered between surviving and suiciding, had no wand and had been starved, which was exactly his situation now. Grudgingly, Dolohov swallowed whatever little was left of his pride and allowed Auror Leader to yank him down and cast a temporary hex of blindness on him. Flanked on all four sides, Dolohov dragged his bare feet across the rough floor. Petty as it was, it was his last defense of defending his pride and himself from being at the mercy of four aurors with one providing rough shoves onto his back as if to hurry him along.

They forced him into a seat, and dispelled his blindness. Immediately, Dolohov forgot his situation and did the only thing he could – slam his fists on the table. From a tiny cold cave, to dingy corridors, Dolohov finally found himself in a blindingly bright room where he felt he might lose his sight naturally. He shut his eyes and took deep calming breaths while righting himself on the seat and rested his palms on the table. Opening his eyes slowly, he looked around the room and noticed that it was just him in a room, almost as bare as his cave, with a wooden chair and table, and a phone.

Dolohov tilted his head, stretched his legs and crossed them at the ankles, and crossed his arms. He assessed the phone and narrowed his eyes when it rang. Cautiously and curiously, he picked it up and nearly snarled at the jovial voice that greeted him a little too loudly. Holding the phone away, he stared tiredly at the object before he shook his head. Someone, at least, was still as he remembered... if his memories were to be believed.

"You…" he breathed almost in relief as he slowly brought the phone back to his ear and closed his eyes to imagine the caller's features, "Where are you calling from?"

"Well, I am in excellent health and form, thanks for asking," the caller replied cheerfully, "Too bad, you can't see me." Dolohov felt his eye twitching fondly at the caller's blatant avoidance of his question. _Taboo question or taboo answer, or a natural behavioral trait? "_ Anyway, happy advanced thirty-fourth birthday!" the caller blew a party horn and Dolohov had no doubt that the caller would be wearing a party hat and holding balloons. That would be just like _him_. "I have balloons and a cake, of course! No birthday is ever complete without a cake!" the caller listed, and Dolohov felt his lips curl lightly, "Oh, I also have-"

"Keep them," Dolohov interrupted as he traced the table top gently to count the years and his smile curled a little more, "Thirty-four..." If he was right, he was now four and thirty years, which meant it had been five years. Five years since the Dark Lord fell. Five years of anguish and misery. Five years of loneliness. Five years and counting…

"-a lot of other sweet stuff like candies and muffins," the caller babbled on as if Dolohov's comment was not heard, "I know how terrible your sweet tooth is. It's -"

Hearing his voice on inane topics again calmed his heart and reminded him that the plan that they had painstakingly practiced had run smoothly. He was safe, and that meant the Dark Lord was definitely rising again. It was just a matter of when, and that would also mean he was breaking out with the rest of them. Merlin, the knowledge was enough for his flame of life that had been flickering to relight. It almost made this suffering, this misery worth every second. The rise of the lord after years would make everything worth it. Dolohov opened his eyes slowly as his fingers slowly balled up. Everything would end with the lord's revival, but would his mind survive till then? Would his usefulness still be relevant when his magic had long rebelled against his command?

Just as he sighed, a dramatic sigh echoed in the phone and Dolohov forcefully returned himself to reality and away from the troubled waters of speculation that his mind had conjured. He would contemplate his situation when he returned to his tiny private space. _Five years have been too long…_ Right now, Dolohov knew nothing was more important the person calling him. Everything hinged on the man. As he waited, silence settled into the call and he stared at the white wall in front of him. He pressed a hand against the wall and sighed. This was comfortable, this was a reminder of a past and Dolohov smiled fondly. As much as the person was a prick, Dolohov appreciated what he was trying to do – his memories of them were real and not figments of a warped imagination.

"So…"

"So…" the caller drawled lazily, and Dolohov blinked as his back whined for him to straighten up but a nagging voice at the back of his mind insisted he continued his lax position. Whatever the prick was going to say, was important. He could not give the aurors stationed outside and spying on their conversation any indication that it was important. _He would not._

"I was thinking –" the caller continued.

"Did it hurt?"

A bark of laughter erupted at the end of the call, and Dolohov released a few small chuckles of his own. "Bastard, you're definitely the same," the caller panted as amusement continued to trickle in his voice and Dolohov felt a blossoming sense of pride and immense relief. He was the same as he was five years ago. His mind had not failed him and his fear of turning into an empty husk of madness like a certain beauty was truly unfounded.

"Anyhow, I've finally learnt why they won't let me give you your presents," the caller said with unusual seriousness despite the lightness of his voice. Dolohov hummed as he forced his nerves to relax. His heart had picked up its pace as a heavy ominous feeling settled in his guts. "Because Merlin knows you deserve better," the caller spoke gently almost as if he was comforting a sad child, " _Luxuries,_ you get me?"

Dolohov's eyes widened just a little for a flicker of a moment before he schooled his features because the door had swung open. He heard it more than saw it, and he bit his tongue to keep himself distracted by the pain instead of the words. Somewhere in him, his turbulent magic started humming excitedly. Something was being planned and it was definitely happening; he just needed to know his role in it.

"Visiting time is over, fucking asshole," the Auror Leader snarled as he yanked Dolohov to his feet.

"Any last words?" Dolohov breathed quickly as his hands curled tighter around the phone.

"Remember them. _All of them_ ," the caller laughed good-naturedly before he whispered, "See you, bastard."

That was all Dolohov needed to complete his remembrance of who and what he truly was. The euphoria of knowing that all of him was still alive and within him, made it impossible to keep the smirk off his face. He was still recognized; it was not just his own egoistic delusions! Today, he was still Antonin Dolohov. Without flexing his defiance and resistance, he allowed the aurors to blind him, and manhandle him back to his cave. Exactly like the trip to the bright white room, the trip back to the cave was just as agonizingly exasperating. The only difference - Dolohov had a new focus and he smiled gently. Oh, he would remember all of them. Every face and name. Every magical presence. They would all suffer, of that he was sure.

"You think this is funny?" the Auror Leader snarled as they shoved him into his tiny cell and slammed the metals gate very strongly that the sound reverberated through the corridor, "We'll see if you're still grinning when your corpse rots in here."

Stumbling over a few steps, he finally regained his balance and calmly turned to them. Strolling towards the metal bars that separated him from them, he stroked a metal bar lightly as if brushing a speck of dust away. Tilting his head to the side, crossing his arms and assuming the most nonchalant pose, he took a very slow and thorough sweep of all the aurors. He knew they were uncomfortable under his eye if the perpetual bobbing of their Adam's apple was any indication. Very carefully, he controlled his voice to a soft whisper, "Aren't all of you too young to be aurors? You haven't seen enough of life's beauty; it would be a shame if you died too soon."

The aurors gritted their teeth and their leader reached forward to yank Dolohov forward. Bright hazel eyes glared murderously into calm and dull grey eyes. "Listen here, you, filthy fucker!" the Auror Leader spat and Dolohov frowned as the flying spit landed on his face, "These fucking bars are here to keep you safe from us, so get off your high horse! Your glory days are gone! Does your pea brain, kapish?"

"You're right; I am a very _filthy fucker_ ," Dolohov agreed fearlessly as he wiped the spit and tilted his head as he stared coolly at the Auror Leader, and unmistakable dark amusement trickled into his voice, "I mean, I'm the one spitting at someone, aren't I?"

"You mug! Trying to take the piss out of me?" the auror hissed.

"It appears I don't have to," Dolohov shrugged nonchalantly, "You do it very well yourself."

"Wipe that disgusting smirk off your face!"

"Why don't you do it?" Dolohov challenged and intentionally allowed his lips to curl into a toothy smile.

"You're a fucking goddamn piece of shit!" the auror roared as he withdrew his wand, "I'll fucking kill you!" Just as he shouted a spell, the other aurors held him back causing the spell to ricochet to just the corner of the cell entrance.

Dolohov craned his neck to spy on the spell and clicked his tongue. Almost patronizingly, he shook his head very slowly and sighed as heavily and loudly as he could. Reclaiming the attention of the aurors, he looked at the leader with the greatest sympathetic look and chided, "How could you ever hope to kill me if your spells not only miss the target but also fails to damage a thing?"

"You-!"

"Stand down, Auror Williamson!" a voice interrupted, and a steady pace of footsteps echoed the corridor. Dolohov's eyes widened a little before they narrowed and a sly smirk stretched over his face. Turning his head just enough to spy at the newcomer from the corner of his eyes, Dolohov's eyes gleamed with a little more dark malice. Cornelius Fudge. "I hope you won't take to heart the rashness of youths, Dolohov," the pudgy man with brown hair mocked, "Your stay here has been pleasurable, I trust?"

"Hello junior minister, it's in a league of its own if you truly must know," Dolohov nodded as he moved closer to the newcomer too calmly. "However, I have always wondered about something; _Cornelius_ , my old friend, has your ambition always been to kiss Minister Bagnold's bottom?"

The effect was instantaneous! Cornelius Fudge's face turned red as he shook with barely contained anger. "We are not friends! How dare you!" he roared as he stomped until he was in front of the smiling Death Eater, "I will kill you where you stand, you disgusting, unrepentant perverted wizard!"

Just as he was about to reach for his wand, Dolohov closed his hand on top of the junior minister's and squeezed it just a little. "I won't do that if I were you," Dolohov whispered lowly as his eyes slowly shifted to the aurors who had begun to take their battle stance, "Between us, we know who is stronger."

Fudge snatched his hand out of Dolohov's grip and righted his robes, while taking deep calming breaths. Dolohov was not lying. If the Death Eater truly wanted, he could have stolen the wand and killed all of them before they could send a Patronus. After all, this was the leader of You-know-who's infamous death squad and a rumoured genius who did not need to use the unforgivable curses to be dangerous. "Auror Williamson, take your team upstairs," Fudge ordered without taking his eyes off the dark wizard, "I will handle him from here."

The young auror led his team and as they past Dolohov's cell, Dolohov pulled a final provocation. "Run while you still can, little boy." Auror Williamson stopped in his tracks and returned to the cell despite his better judgement to ignore the taunts and follow his orders dutifully.

Glaring deeply into Dolohov's unimpressed grey eyes, he growled fiercely. "You will never escape from here, and you will rot until you are past bones. If you ever leave, I promise you that I will hunt you down like the cowardly boar you are. I will tear you apart. Limb from limb, you hear me? _It will all look like an accident_."

Sticking his hand out and curling it around the nape of the young auror, Dolohov pulled the young wizard as close as possible. "You have quite the imagination, _Williamson_ ," Dolohov praised softly, "you remind me very much of your _hopeless cowardly_ brother." Dipping his head just so his lips would be a hair's breath away from the ear of the auror, Dolohov purred softly and made extra care to pronounce his words very clearly, "He was always spewing all the righteous things and it was an annoying buzzing that would not stop. Did you know what I did to end it? I pulled his guts out while he was still very much alive and conscious. His helpless screams was my favourite music for a while but there was a special feature of his that I remembered even more fondly - his expressive brown eyes. It was exquisite how they were as brown as yours and they revealed such immeasurable fear and helplessness as he lied on the snow. So, come after me and avenge your beloved brother. _Come Williamson, come_ ; if you dare. Let me see those terrified eyes again." Dolohov blew lightly on the auror's ear and smiled gently when the younger wizard shuddered and pushed himself away from the metal bars. His terrified brown eyes stared at the sinister smile before he stumbled backwards and quickly scampered away without a backward glance. His team of young aurors followed him quickly and Dolohov chuckled to himself, "When preys try to play a predator's game, there is only one outcome – the hunted always becomes the hunter."

"What did you tell him?" Fudge asked.

"Nothing important," Dolohov shrugged as he returned to sitting-sleeping spot and flopped lazily, "Better run along too, Fudge. As they said, visiting hours are over."

Fudge stared at the audacity of dark haired wizard and left without a grumble. As much as he hated to be ordered by those he deemed lesser than him, he knew better than to fight Antonin Dolohov. The man might be starved and wandless, but one simply never underestimated a member of the fallen Dark Lord's inner circle. Fudge was not pompous enough to believe the bars that keep the Death Eaters in were to protect them from the rash and young aurors. In fact, Fudge believed it to be the other way just the same reason why muggles would trap animals in their zoo enclosures. "A beast would always be a beast," Fudge murmured while he walked the corridor, flanked on both sides by imprisoned Death Eaters and prayed silently to Merlin, "a predator would never forget its nature; let them never leave this place."

Dolohov closed his eyes with a contented sigh. Finally, he had found another Williamson. How long had he waited to find one of them just so he could tell them the story of James Williamson? It was a truly marvelously picturesque scene, especially since the white of winter contrasted very well. A true Gryffindor dressed only in red and gold, lied staring at the clear sky at the edge of the black lake. He was painted in bright crimson and his gold hair spread over the snow beneath his cracked head. His bowels were left spilling over his legs while he was carelessly castrated, and a haphazard message was slashed onto his torso: Gryffindor's Martyr.

 _The silent fear in those hazel eyes were eternal._

* * *

August 1986

 _"Antonin Dolohov, you have been found guilty of 450 counts of murder, not excluding the aggravated capital murders of Fabian and Gideon Prewett, 1, 895 counts of attempted murder, seven counts of aggravated assault, three counts of terrorist carnage of which two were on the Muggle Britain, and 150 counts of using the unforgivable spells. Do you plead guilty?"_

 _"Not interested." Dolohov sat in the middle of the court, his posture straight but relaxed, his arms folded across his chest, and a most indifferent expression on his face. He was the picture of pride and an unshakable belief that he was far from wrong. Even while he was awaiting his judgment, Dolohov was unfazed and not repentant. Nobody in the court doubted for a moment that he would still have done what he did even if time should rewind._

 _Minister Bagnold glared down at him from her perch as she read his sentence. "For the first-degree murders, you are sentenced to 30 years for each charge, and in addition to the 1, 895 counts of attempted murder, you are sentenced to 25 years for each charge, and you are sentenced to 5 years for each count of assault. On top of that, you are sentenced to 50 years for each count of terrorist carnage, and a further 15 years for each count of unforgivable spell used. Lastly, for belonging to the terrorist group, you are sentenced to 20 years. From the fifth year of your sentence onwards, you will only be granted a visitor every fourth month of the year. Aurors, take him away."_

 _"You should have simply sentenced me to life without parole," Dolohov deadpanned as he allowed the aurors to drag him away to Azkaban._

Antonin Dolohov shuddered awake just the same as all the previous cycles. The symphony had started without him, and Dolohov guessed they were fast approaching the scherzo which meant Bellatrix was awake before him, and those ghastly Dementors were gliding close to them. In the swirl of the voice of madness, Dolohov heard a foreign shuffling approaching him. Was it time for another visit from _him_? Had a year past him by since the last visit? Dolohov shook his head. It was hard to measure time without seeing a rising and falling sun, or the changing skies. Perhaps, it was not his turn but someone else's visiting turn?

"Hey bastard!" Dolohov found himself smirking even before he looked at the metal bars. It was too familiar an inflection to be mistaken for another. The carefree amusement in the voice.

"Prick?" Dolohov frowned as he turned around and his smirk slipped off completely. The mandid not look as what Dolohov remembered but perhaps a change in appearance was necessary a person shamed. Dolohov was sure the prick was pardoned because who else but he who called him the last time? Perhaps, shame made one develop a pouch on the stomach... and the hair! White blond to a disgusting shade of red! Dolohov winced as he looked at the face – an ugly caricature of poverty and dullness. Of all the possible faces, _he_ chose a Weasley to assist in the escape? Was _he_ trying to spin an ironic story of forgiveness? In all honesty, Dolohov knew he should known of the prick's preferences for theatrics but this... this was taking the cake!

"Yeah, I had to," the prick waved away the unspoken question. Drawing very precise wand movements that were unlike his usual lazy flicks, he ordered, "Stand back. I doubt the dementors would stay away for long." The prick was not messing about. The sound of bent metals and rocks disintegrating into sand filled Dolohov's ears. Had the symphony ended, it was impossible for no one not to hear the antics happening in front of Dolohov's cell. A gust of wind swept against his back and Dolohov frowned. Dolohov turned to look at the huge hole behind him before he was yanked forward by the neck, "If we are getting out of here, it would be by my way and my style." Dolohov shrugged and followed without further arguments. It would not help to argue against the planner who was also the plan-executioner. He was just a passenger, and he would follow. He had nothing to lose, and everything to win. The moment his foot stepped out of his cell, an alarm rode louder than the ongoing symphony and reverberated through the dingy corridors before a hoof of footsteps echoed through the ceiling above them.

The imposter stopped to turn to him, and violet eyes stared surprised at him. Dolohov winced at the horrendous sight before him; it was small mercies that the eyes were still as he remembered them but… Of all the looks in the world, hejust had to choose to impersonate one of the ugliest families! Merlin! The prick raised an eyebrow and then looked heavenwards while he released an exasperated breath. "Would you just let it go already?" he hissed as he smacked the back of Dolohov's head and narrowed his eyes at the end of the corridor, "Remember your Transfiguration?" Without prompting, Dolohov transformed into a beast and watched the playful vibes from the imposter evaporate completely. "Stick to the shadows." There was no doubt about it, the prick was ready to kill, and Dolohov allowed a slow sardonic smile curl on his face. It was not often he saw this side of the man, but when he did, it usually ended with more deaths than expected.

"Mr Weasley!" Stopping just a few feet away, the aurors stared at the red-haired wizard.

"Ah, hello Auror Williamson, how do you do?"

"You shouldn't be he-"

"Stop the imposter!" the fast approaching true Patriarch of Weasley roared and without pause, he threw the spell: Everte Statum! The spell whizzed past the cheek of the impersonator causing a light laceration. That was just enough spark to trigger the battle in Azkaban's dungeon. The team of young aurors immediately cast spells to which the impersonator deflected most of them. Dolohov had already started running, when colorful beams whizzed past him, and singeing his body and tail. His blood had begun buzzing, and his ears were ringing. It had been too long since he felt the thrill of battle.

"Bastard!" A hiss sliced through the adrenaline and Dolohov turned to look. The disguise was melting away and Dolohov heaved a sigh of relief inwardly at the gradual reappearance of his closest friend running just behind him. Casting a charm, the blonde ordered Dolohov to chase the lighted insignia that littered the walls and floor of the maze. Dolohov, without needing a word of encouragement, raced after the charmed signs and left the blond wizard shouting counter curses behind him while storming down a different path. Explosions from near and far echoed through the usually silent dungeon, and Dolohov wondered if there were other break outs happening coincidentally with his. There were too many explosions for just one break out... unless this was just a diversion.

"There may be other Death Eaters swarming this place. On guard!"

When the last glowing insignia faded, Dolohov pressed himself against the corner he had been led to and readied himself to pounce on any unsuspecting enemy. He might be weakened and without his wand, but he was still a Death Eater and a good duelist. At the very least, Dolohov was sure his beast form would be able to overpower and kill at least a wizard. In the thick of battle and riding on urges to maintain survival, Dolohov would not allow himself to be distracted by the wounds he had suffered nor the weakness from malnutrition. Curses and counter curses were still flying and echoing through the labyrinth, hordes of footsteps were still stomping through the maze but gradually, the spells were fading out as was Dolohov's grit to stay awake. Trembling on his legs, Dolohov knew he was very close to collapsing and his eyes were barely registering the sight before him.

 _Yaxley._

On the verge of surrendering, a blurred vision of a bleeding blond wizard appeared and reached out to him. Dolohov allowed his body to collapse on the wizard and a jumbled slur invaded his mind. A few warm charms surged through his body but Dolohov was not bothered. He would not resist. He was in safe hands. A loud blast echoed in his mind but sweet darkness had almost completely owned him. Faintly, he heard the whistle of wings flapping and felt the almost forgotten feel of the wind. At last, he was free.

* * *

"Minister, Prisoner Antonin Dolohov has escaped prison. Permission to pursue, ma'am."

An auror with bright hazel eyes and blond hair delivered the break out news in the auditorium. Not a pin drop could be heard in the heavy silence.

"Auror Williamson, he was your charge, was he not?" Minister Bagnold asked from her seat and Peter Williamson squared his shoulders and waited with bated breath. He nodded stiffly and she pursed her lips. "How did he escape?"

"They blew a hole in his cell, and another on the West Wing. I believe the outsiders entered through the West Wing and they left through the hole in Dolohov's cell after they led us through the labyrinth in a wild goose. They had also destroyed random parts of the maze; if only to, I believe, create tactical diversion. It is the most logical modus operandi."

She hummed. "Do we have any suspects?"

"I believe his last visitor, Corban Yaxley, is among some that assisted in his escape."

"To which direction did they flee?"

"The hole in his cell faces the North of Britain."

"Very well," she said with sternly. Turning her attention to regard all the attendants in the auditorium, she said curtly, "I want Dolohov back in Azkaban _immediately_. Watch every floo and its extensive network. Watch the skies and the seas; anything that should not be flying or at sea, bring it in for questioning. Do not allow the news of his escape to surface, and I mean absolutely no news."

"Yes, ma'am. What of the…. muggles?"

"We do not involve them. This is a wizarding business, not a war on Britain."

* * *

Please leave me a review! Thanks.


	3. Chapter 2

A/N: In this chapter too, there is not much rewrite done in here except some polishing and the tail of this chapter. There are additions that will help to explain Yaxley's reactions and help to better transit to the next chapter.

* * *

September 1, 1986

In Winchester, life on a school day started only when the clock struck 7 in the morning. It was at that auspicious hour when cars would leave the garages, when fumes from cars would flee into the air, when the laughter of children would break the silence of dawn v and the birds would begin their choir. It was the time when a little girl began dreading her day.

At seven years of age, Hermione Granger had survived the first year in primary school and was waiting impatiently for another five more years to pass so that she could move to a new school. Sometimes, she wished that she were Aladdin with a magical lamp and she would wish to be studying somewhere else, _anywhere_ , in London that was not Winchester Primary School. Not a day in the whole of last year that anyone in school had extended a hand of friendship to her. How unbelievable was it that in a school of many students, none of them wanted to be her friend? Hermione hated them. There was Arthur whatever-his-family-name-was and his two cronies: Javier Nasty-C-Grades and Sylvester Handsome-But-Mean, who would make school terribly upsetting.

Every day, they would corner her at her locker and steal her lunch money. Every day, they would yank her bag from her and empty its contents in the school yard. Every day, they would tip over her lunch box and stomp on her lunch. Every day, the other students would watch and none would come forward to help. All of them would look pitifully at her and turn their backs on her. Every day, she would tattle to the teachers and yet there would be no change. How could teachers go against the sons of Politicians?

Some days, Hermione wished she was not, as the teachers would praise, "An unbelievably smart girl". What was the point of being smart if she had no friends? What was the point of being the top student in everything for every assessment if no one wanted to be friends with her? Some days, Hermione would return home from school and cry in the shower. Some nights, she would cry to sleep. For the first few months of school, Hermione was positively excited to be in school and making friends her age yet as the months went on, she realized the ugly truth – no one wanted to befriend anyone smart. No one wanted to befriend a girl who could not control her wild curly hair and tie it into a presentable ponytail. No one wanted to befriend a girl with buck teeth and freckles on her nose and around her eyes. In short, no one wanted to be associated to a smart and ugly girl, and that was precisely who and what Hermione was.

"Hermione! Darling, please hurry or we can't have breakfast together!" Jean Granger hollered from the foot of the stairs as her husband prepared the breakfast table and fetched the morning papers from the porch. She returned to the table, kissed her husband's cheek and they waited for their only daughter to arrive.

Hermione stood in front of her mirror, and slowly buttoned her blouse. It had been a year but it did not mean she was used to it. Every morning, she would wake to see dried tear streaks on her face, and every morning after her morning shower, a new fresh trail of tears would appear. Sometimes, Hermione wondered if she would one day die from dehydration because of all the tears she had shed. The fantasy lasted for a while before her brilliant rubbished the thought. She sighed and squared her shoulders, picked her school bag and closed her bedroom door before she joined her parents for breakfast.

Every day, she would feel tears welling up in her eyes when her mother packs her lunchbox. Every day, she wanted to cry when her mother tells her to share her lunch with the other children. Every time, Hermione wanted to tell her parents about her terrible time in school but every time she would not. They had enough problems to content with, and she was a big girl, was she not? Surely, _all_ big girls dealt with their problems on their own. So, Hermione always tell to them that school was fine. Every time she would put a smile and lie.

"Alright, darling," Jean looked at her adorable daughter and smiled encouragingly, "we will be back late tonight so please do not stay up for us."

Hermione nodded mutely. The day just got worse. Whenever her parents would be having long days at work, it only meant that Babysitter Karen would be coming and fetching her. Now, Babysitter Karen was not as terrible as Arthur and his two _buddies_ , but Karen never cared. Karen was dismissal and indifferent. As Karen's best line went, "If you're ugly, you'll be bullied. Simple, no big deal. I don't see why you're making a fuss." Hermione sighed inwardly as she climbed into the car and strapped herself.

 _One day, someone will see my worth and be my friend._

The car rumbled to life, and Hermione watched the passing sceneries. It was always the same scenery – a field would flank one side of the road, separating the tall trees of the forest from the residents of Winchester. Some days, Hermione thought to wander into those woods and take a moment to pretend as if she were in Narnia. All she wanted was just one moment of adventure with a friend but those were just fairy tale illusions. That would always be what her mind said to vanquish the thought without reluctance.

Hermione rested her hands on the window as she watched the scene. The car came to a stop, probably due to traffic, her mind would supply. Hermione was not concerned, not because that was usual and expected, but because she saw an orange thing looking in her direction in the woods. She blinked and it was gone!

"Of course, it was gone," Hermione giggled at her silly eyes. "How could a tiger possibly be that huge and in Winchester of all places?" She shook her head and giggled some more until her parents dropped her at school.

"Alright darling, remember-"

"Yes, mommy," Hermione nodded as she smiled at her mother, "I will study hard."

"Yes, of course," Jean smiled indulgingly, "but more importantly, remember to share your lunch with your friends." Hermione nodded and waved her parents goodbye and remained behind the school gates until she could not see the family car. Gloomy and dispirited, Hermione slowly trudged into school and braced herself for another day of bullying and another day of failure to make a friend.

* * *

First day of second year in school ended just like how it always ended. How could she ever expect today to be any different from the previous days? Hermione chided and scolded herself. As Sir Isaac Newton said, things would remain in the same motion if there was no change added to it. Arthur, Javier and Sylvester were the same bullies and their fathers were still part of the cabinet. She was still the same girl with buck teeth and uncontrollable curls. The school was the same. The students were still the same – there was no missing face, and certainly no new face.

As she trudged her way to the school gates, her brown eyes searched for a young woman with bright pink hair. Only Karen would dye her hair some awful color as a fashion rebel statement. Hermione walked to the babysitter and together, they returned to the Grangers' residence. Karen never helped Hermione to carry her bag or her school stuff, because as Karen would advice, "Big girls carry their own weight." Since then, Hermione would struggle with her school bag and her art materials, while Karen walked alongside her and conveniently ignored the way the other students jeered at her charge. Hermione would also not speak a word to Karen unless strictly necessary. Hermione was not terribly desperate for human interaction that she would talk to Karen only so she could feel even more terrible. Young Granger learnt that early and in the hard way.

As soon as they returned, Karen raided the Granger's fridge, settled herself on their couch and turned on the television. Hermione never stayed long enough around the woman to find out what she was watching. As long as Karen did not intrude on Hermione's business, Hermione was more than grateful. Depositing her school stuff in her room, Hermione peered out of her bedroom window to watch the life happening outside. Children her age were smiling and laughing, walking between their parents and the whole family would be having ice cream. Other children would be happily giggling as they played chase in the backyard. Every child seemed to have someone but her. Hermione wondered if she was the only child in the whole of Winchester that did not have a friend, and her only allies being her parents.

As Hermione was withdrawing away from the window to occupy herself with more books, she frowned as her eyes watched a suspicious figure walking casually into her family's shed. Without further thought, she armed herself with a coat hanger and a torchlight and went down to the forbidden place. Her parents had told her often enough never to enter the shed because behind the door were some of the most dangerous tools and she whole heartedly believed them. She hardly ever saw either of her parents enter the shed unless her father wanted to fix their car. Breathing deeply, she went down the stairs quietly, and out the backdoor without arousing Karen's attention. Getting Karen's attention would be a whole can of worms she was not prepared to deal with. Sneakily, Hermione crept to the shed before she stopped halfway and frowned. Why was she even sneaking into her family's property?

Just like that, Hermione found renewed bravery and approached the shed. Opening the door, a loud creak echoed and she winced. Holding the coat hanger in her master hand, the torchlight in the other, she carefully moved in the space. In the dingy room, the dust was thick and the sunlight flittered weakly through the open window on the far wall.

"Who is there?"

Walking ever deeper, she frowned when she saw a huge thing lying beneath the window. As she made her way closer gingerly, her startled gasp escaped her throat and a strangled cry echoed through the room. The door had shut and Hermione wondered if the wind had shut it or the person who was covering her mouth with their hand was the reason for the closed door.

"Shh, don't make a sound, peanut," a voice whispered roughly somewhere over her head and Hermione found herself gulping. The man urged her forward gently and she walked closer and closer to the huge thing. Upon closer inspection, she noticed its orange fur and stripes. What was a tiger doing in her daddy's shed? Was it the orange thing she saw this morning? As her eyes went over its still form, Hermione noticed its body was riddled clumps of tangled matted fur and burnt patches. Its claws were far too long and piercing its paw pad. Its tail was burnt and part of the flesh was charred. The tiger looked far past its glory days, and terribly abused.

"I know you are scared," the man whispered, "so, don't make this more difficult for you." Hermione wondered if she could kick him but since he had disarmed her so easily without her noticing, the smarter decision was to obey and make a run back home at the earliest opportunity and call her parents and the police. Hermione breathed and nodded. Immediately, the hand around her mouth slipped away and the man walked around her and sat beside the beast. "Have a seat, peanut. Let us redo our introduction," the man smiled disarmingly but having been at his mercy mere seconds ago, Hermione cautiously sat down, "So, what is your name?"

"Hermione. Hermione Granger, sir." Hermione noticed he was quite a... _potentially_ refined looking man. His white blond hair was slicked back and his violet eyes twinkled. He was clad in a black open coat that was badly singed on the hems with one of the sleeves longer than the other, a matching pair of tattered black gloves and a white crumpled dress shirt that was ripped on the left rib, black pants and burnt brown shoes. He was, to Hermione's standards, very handsome if one just ignored his burnt clothes.

"Very nice name," the man smiled charmingly, "I am terribly apologetic for manhandling you but you see, that poor guy needs to rest in peace." Hermione understood, the tiger looked in terrible shape. "I am Corban," Yaxley bit the inside of his cheek as he tripped over his name to introduce himself, "Corban Ya-, just call me Corban. Pleasure to meet you, peanut." Yaxley did not have to look at the tiger to know it had opened an eye and was giving him the most bemused stare.

Hermione frowned deeply. The man had asked for her name and had yet insisted on calling her by a moniker instead of her name? How terribly rude! "Sir Corban, I am _Hermione_ ," she insisted and enunciated her name slowly and syllable by syllable. She had thought he could not pronounce her name as did most of the people in Winchester. Perhaps, that was why he continued to call her by a nickname. Peanut was certainly simpler to pronounce than Hermione.

"Oh, believe me, peanut, I heard you very well," Yaxley smiled but Hermione heard the edge of irritation creeping into his voice, "I just prefer to call you peanut. You may call me whatever you wish just not Sir Corban; it makes me sound old. Surely, you would take that as a… _token of friendship_?"

Hermione blinked. Was this how people made friends? They called each other by nicknames? Hermione felt as if she had been enlightened and she was doubly overjoyed after registering that the man had declared them friends. Unable to find eloquent words to convey her happiness, Hermione nodded vigorously and smiled toothily at him.

 _Oh, such a defenseless naïve lamb._

"You know, peanut, there is no other way to say this," Yaxley drawled while his eyes deliberately slid to the tiger which was breathing heavily and smiled inwardly when her eyes followed his gaze, "but will you help me watch this old guy while I head into town for his medicines? I can't leave this defenseless... _beast_ on his own."

That was all it took for Hermione to race to her bedroom, and smuggled her blankets and towels into the shed. When she arrived, huffing and panting, and barely able to see anything in front of her, Yaxley was already fixing a collar chain on the tiger. Standing two feet away, she threw the towels and blankets on the animal that had still not bothered to look at her, and Yaxley chuckled softly. After the last of her smuggled cloth was thrown haphazardly on the back of the tiger, she turned to look up adoringly at Yaxley, "Corban, when you are gone, your pet won't eat me, would it?"

 _Should have worried about that from the start, peanut._ "I assure you he will do no such thing," Yaxley assured her confidently but the true recipient of the firm words raised its head and opened its eyes to regard him. Yaxley's violet eyes stared down the grey eyes, and the silent staring match went unknown to the child. A moment later, the tiger rolled its eyes and dropped its head on his paws with a low growl. Satisfied at Dolohov's relent, Yaxley put on his playful smile as he addressed her, "Alright, peanut, I will return shortly."

* * *

While Yaxley was gone, Hermione watched the terribly mistreated beast resting on his belly with his front paws resting on his eyes. His large claws looked to be protruding painfully. They almost looked too long for him to retract them back. Reaching out slowly and cautiously, Hermione touched his tangled and matted fur that were coated in grime and dried blood. She was especially careful of the burnt patches that still looked delicate enough to bleed again. Some of its flesh, especially near its rear, was burnt horribly. Hermione saw her tears dripped onto the back of her palms as she gingerly touched the injured beast. Her fingers ghosted over the burnt tail and tenderly moved over the broken ribs. Who could have injured a beautiful beast so terribly that it was struggling to live? Hermione clung onto its neck and sobbed into its fur. She lamented its fate and its condition in between shaky gasps and gulps.

Dolohov remained still as the tiny girl touched him. It was not as if he wanted to lie still and be under her touch, but it was because of the pain and broken ribs he suffered during the break out last night. It was anyone's guess what happened after Yaxley found him, but he was certain they had plenty of difficult times. Dolohov concentrated on staying in his beast form; it would be unthinkable if his concentration snapped and he transformed in front of her into a man. One thing at a time, he reminded himself. Being touched and inspected by a muggle child was less humiliating than being found defenseless and deathly on the floor of a muggle property. He was a pure blood wizard, one of the ancient lines in Russia, and he would choose his place of death. That was something he would not negotiate and leave to fate. He came to the world as an aristocrat, he would leave it as an aristocrat. He would not be a fallen noble; Yaxley could take the role if he wanted. Dolohov would not be reduced to a cheap Romeo; he would _never_ give up who and what he was for some muggle chit. He was not as facetious and rakish as Yaxley.

As she continued her hugging of his neck, Dolohov started to grimace. No doubt, with the sounds of sniffling, her tears and snot would mix somewhere with his hair. Burdened with his unfortunate and very cadaverous circumstances, and motivated by his powerful desire to get her out of his fur, Dolohov did the only thing he could do without moving much – he purred. Feeling the rumble rolling through his body, Dolohov hoped she would finally entangle herself from him. It would not do for anyone, especially Yaxley, to see him so smothered by a child, especially a muggle child. Very slowly, with great reluctance, the tiny arms disentangled from around his neck and her small face invaded his sight. Her face was a mess of tear trails, dried and wet snot smeared around her nose and cheeks, and some of his fur was stuck onto her. She was such a poor picture of cuteness.

Through shuddering breaths, she sniveled an apology as she patted his head sadly. She apologized on behalf of the _cruel_ zookeepers _,_ the _heartless_ zoo owner and ultimately, the _self-serving_ tourists who only wanted him to be a trophy animal more than preserving his… _species_. It was no wonder he would escape the zoo. Dolohov merely stared at her with cold indifference as he listened to her assumptions of his plight. Had she been a witch, even a _muggle born_ witch, and attended Hogwarts; it would be very likely that she would be housed with the Gryffindors. It took courage, extreme _recklessness_ in her case, to sit very closely to a beast which had the bite power to crush her easily. Perhaps Hufflepuff would be a good fit, given the loyalty and sincerity she was giving to the friendship Yaxley had carelessly, and certainly not with a shred of sincerity, offered to her. Slytherin was the least suited for her, especially given her lack of blood purity but that did not mean she had no sense of cunningness. Dolohov was sure she, as every other person, could be cunning should the need for it arise – no one was devoid of any trait. Suppressed, maybe. Devoid, impo-

"You know, you have the most beautiful grey eyes. They look like storm clouds!" Dolohov blinked and stared at her in shock. To say he was taken aback was an understatement. _Beautiful eyes_? Dolohov pulled his lips into a snarl and growled. He would not be like the narcissistic pretty Malfoy boy. Beautiful should never be a word to describe any part of him. "I think I'll call you Storm!" she giggled and clapped her hands, "Such pretty grey eyes." Dolohov glared at her. She had the gall to rename him and call him pretty? This muggle needed to be taught a lesson. Nobody, _nobody at all_ , would ever call him beautiful and pretty. She would not effeminate and humiliate his ego any more than this. She would pay so dearly for her ignorance. He was Antonin Dolohov the Death Eater, the Tormentor, the Azkaban Escapee. In which of his titles warranted the words beautiful and pretty? Dolohov was incensed.

"You're a tough guy, huh," she giggled as if she saw the blazing rage in his eyes. As if she had not made enough fun of him, she went for the sucker punch. "Corban must know of your eyes!" Dolohov, without fully thinking of his actions, swiped a paw at her and knocked her onto the ground. Stalking over, he pinned her shoulders down with his paws and brought his face close to hers, and growled. Oh, he remembered his promise to Yaxley not to eat her but that did not mean he could not kill her. Barring his teeth, he was certain she was terrified. Muggle, she may be, but even she had some survival instincts, surely? No, Dolohov was wrong about her; she had none because she giggled openly at him. Confused, Dolohov retracted and stared at her. As if she could sense his confusion, she hugged his neck and smiled into his fur. "I'm sorry for making you angry." Ruffling his fur, she eventually released him and leaned against his less wounded side. Silence waned on as they waited for Yaxley, and Dolohov felt tension gradually leaving his pores. Finally at peace after the whole mind-boggling nonsense with the young muggle, Dolohov's body relaxed comfortably and he started purring. Everything was go-

"Corban seems a nice man," she said so abruptly that Dolohov's eyes flew open and the low humming from him ended. Grey eyes slid along and looked at her. "He is a bit like my daddy, except more… _funny_. Daddy is always very serious." She nodded her head as if she was reaffirming and emphasizing the undeniable differences between the men.

 _Sweetheart, you do not even know half the things Yaxley has done, never mind what he is truly capable of._

Dolohov very much wanted to do something to her, except he was not sure any of his actions would bring him satisfaction. She was either too innocent and trusting, or simply too fearless. Granted, she did not actually know who they truly were. Yaxley may have told her his name but without his surname, there was no way she would know she was huddling with what the wizarding society would call cold-blooded terrorists. Merlin! As Dolohov continued contemplating the mystery of the child, the exhaustion and pain from last night's adventure was starting to catch up to him. No doubt, Yaxley's charms on him were fading quickly. Dolohov knew he needed the potions quickly, or at the least, some sustenance. The more he was getting aware of his condition, the more his concentration to remain in his beast form was flickering and fading. Dolohov shut his eyes and focused all his mind on-

Hermione tilted her head to look at the beast and a wide toothy grin exploded on her face. "That was your stomach!" she exclaimed and Dolohov winced as her high-pitched voice brought a wave of headache to him, "I'll go in and find you some food. I'll be back… please don't wander away or Corban will be very cross with me." Skipping out of the shed, and closing the door carefully, Hermione snuck into her kitchen through the back door.

Dolohov, on the other hand, had reverted into his human form as soon as she left and cursed Azkaban in between gasps of labored breath. For his Dark Lord, he would not die in a muggle shed. He would much rather love a muggle than be caught dead and humiliated like a feeble common muggle Joe on the disgusting gravel. At least with the former, he would only suffer heart-

 _They are here._

Dolohov struggled to his knees, and swore when he felt his fractured ribs. He faced the door and waited for the inevitable. The aurors worked fast, and if they arrived before Yaxley returned, they could retrieve him without much fight on his part. He was still wandless, not that he believed he could do much even with a wand in his current situation. His body shook terribly as if he was emancipated. There was no way he would be able to aim well or even have enough magic and steady focus to fire a spell with intention. The excruciating pain surging through him, he was sure, was proving to be a very huge distraction. Dolohov closed his eyes and embraced death's impending welcome. A moment passed, and then two and Dolohov reopened his eyes, and frowned. It was not death that whispered to him, but rather a soft discussion flittered before a short magic tantrum erupted and died, and silence prevailed once again. Dolohov frowned at the door, and a single question burnt in his mind.

 _Why?_

* * *

Hermione, as quietly as she could to avoid catching the attention of Karen, slowly searched the kitchen for food. Taking tuna cans, bottles of water, and some fruits, she carried them gingerly to the shed. Juggling her food and looking down so she would not trip, Hermione walked into the back of a man. Looking up, she looked into the strangest of pairs and pursed her lips.

"Hello, girl," he greeted her kindly while his partner simply glared at her as if she was interrupting their work instead of them intruding on her family's property. How terribly rude!

"Who are you?" Hermione asked curiously as she stared at them. One had blond hair and kind blue eyes, while the other simply looked an older Arthur. It must be Arthur's brother or uncle. Arthur must have had told his family how smart and ugly she was. That would explain why the man gave her the ugliest scowls and rudest glare especially when this was the first time she had met him.

"I'm Peter Williamson and he's Garry Collymore. We are detectives from London's Police Department. Who might you be?" He had flashed her his id and Hermione nodded appreciatively. Mr Williamson could be trusted _._

"Hermione. Hermione Granger, sir."

"So, Little Miss Granger, have you seen any…" Mr Williamson paused and thought of the most appropriate word. It would not do to scare a muggle child about an escapee who happened to be a terrorist who was wandering in her neighborhood, especially when she was everything he hated. "Any… _suspicious_ character recently?"

Hermione frowned. Surely Corban and his pet tiger would be considered suspicious but should she tattle on her first friends? When she rationalized it that way, the answer was obvious. She would not continue holding the undisputed champion title of being the only person in the whole of Winchester who had no friends, and no support bar her parents. Hermione shook her head.

"I am sure Yaxley's magic was felt here!" Mr Older Arthur shouted indignantly and glared fiercely at her, "You, little lying chit! Tell us the truth!" Grabbing her cheeks in one hand, Hermione stared in shock and dropped her goods as he forced her mouth open. Quickly, he uncorked a flask and tipped the contents into her mouth. Just as the first drop was about to touch her lips, the strangest of things happened. The breeze around them picked up significant speed and was quickly turning into a gust. Nearby birds started flying around them while the lamp posts lining the streets started to flicker. Hermione was furious. She was terrified too but she would not be forced to sell her first friends out. She would defend them, she would hide them and she would do all she can to help them. Even if it meant, she would lie.

"Blimey, Garry! She is a witch!" Mr Williamson exclaimed as he forced his partner to release her. Hermione stared up at them in horror. That was the final nail into her coffin, was it not? A witch surely had no place amongst them! What would her parents say? Would they ship her away or drop her to an orphanage to be adopted? Hermione was truly terrified for her fate. Was this cruel fate the price she paid for lying in the hopes to protect her friends? What had she ever done to deserve such terrible cards at life?

"Well, what do you know," Mr Williamson smiled down at her, "You're a muggle born witch, just as I am a muggle born wizard." Hermione had no idea what they were talking about and she was not even sure she wanted to know. Right now, she had more worrying and depressing matters. What could be worse than this? If anyone in Winchester knew that she was a witch, there would be a relentless hunt for her. "If she met them, I am sure she would not still be standing here," Mr Williamson continued talking to Mr Older Arthur who nodded mutely while looking around. Finally, Mr Williamson noticed her distress, apologized for the rough handling of his rude partner and the pair of them swiftly left the scene leaving a stunned Hermione behind. Terrified for her fate, Hermione slowly and numbly gathered whatever good was salvageable from the lawn, and headed to the shed. Storm's survival was depending on her, and she would not fail Corban by letting it starve. She could only hope that there was at least something good she could do to gather some good karma points before Winchester started a rally for a witch hunt.

* * *

Searching for a basin in the shed, Hermione emptied all the bottles and pushed the basin of water to the tiger who was watching her very carefully. Without prompting, Storm started lapping and Hermione busied with laying out the fruits. She drew her legs and wrapped her arms around them, while she watched the tiger devour everything by the side with tears sliding off her face. Perhaps if she were to die in the coming days, maybe it would be a merciful death if only because that would be a nice karma for the goodwill she did for Corban's pet. Noticing her distress, Storm stopped eating and looked at her. Its grey eyes stared at her and Hermione did her best to put the bravest smile. What was the point of looking upset to an animal? Especially since the animal had not done anything to hurt her, and probably would never.

Slowly, Storm approached her and bumped his nose on her hand. Hermione stared at the tiger which was slowly blinking at her and finally she reached forward and scratched it behind its ears. The tiger purred deeply as it lied beside her and Hermione giggled every time she felt a rumble went through his body. Hermione felt calmness settle over her and started to curl against the warmth of the beast. Just as she was about to fall deeply into her sleep, a distressingly loud thud slammed onto the tin roof of the shed, and Storm glared and growled threateningly at the roof. Hermione immediately sat up and watched a golden eagle descending through the hole. Upon touching down, the golden eagle magically turned into a familiar man. Had Hermione blinked during the entire episode, she would have thought herself crazy but seeing was believing, and she believed wholly that Corban was a man _and_ a golden eagle.

"Hello! I'm ba-" Yaxley announced jovially until he noticed the open-mouthed expression of the girl who was gripping a handful of Storm's fur. "Ah, right… So, you're still awake. Hello, peanut."

"You… _what_ are you?" she stuttered as she raised a shaking finger at Yaxley who merely tilted his head to the side with the most patient smile, and waited for her to arrive to a conclusion. "Corban, you are a _wizard_ too?"

The friendly smile on the blonde's face evaporated instantly and what greeted her was the laziest of smiles. "That, I am," he drawled as he took deliberately slow steps to the young girl who beamed in relief, "but you know peanut, I heard _someone in here_ lied to the police. Would you happen to know anything about it?"

Hermione bit her lip and looked down. She could not look at the face of the only person, outside of her family, who had been friendly to her. What would they think of her now? A smart and ugly girl with no friends and had just lied the police! She was sure lying made her even more unworthy of friends; not to mention that they called her a muggle-born witch. The only solace she could get from this was Corban was also a wizard, and _he was nice_. For the rest of the world, Hermione was not sure. Life simply could not be nice to her, could it? So, should she lie to her new friend as well? "I… Will you hate me too?"

"Why did you lie to them, peanut? Were you afraid they would take him away?"

Hermione followed Yaxley's gaze and stared at Storm. His grey eyes were focused on Yaxley and Hermione nodded sadly. Tears welled in her eyes. She was going to lose his friendship. He would never want to be friends with her again. Who wanted to be friends with a liar? Was honesty not the virtue to be respected? Was honesty not the trait that earned you friends? Hermione fell to her knees as she started sobbing. This must be why she had no friends. This must be the final nail in the coffin. Arthur, Javier and Sylvester and everyone in school, and in Winchester… All of them must have known she was a liar. She heard Yaxley standing and walking but what he did was far from what she expected. He held her while she wept in his arms. "Shh peanut, it's okay," Yaxley crooned, "I won't look at you any lesser after what you did."

Yaxley withdrew from the hug and started walking towards the exit without looking back, and Hermione stared at his back. Was this how her friendship with him going to be? Anxiety and hurt started bubbling in her as she looked at the back of the blonde. How could this be fair? She was just starting to enjoy having a friend. It was not fair that the friendship could be ripped away just because she lied to protect him! He even said it himself that her worth in his eyes would not diminish! How was this logical?

"You know, peanut, I was starting to be fond of you," Yaxley sighed as he turned to look at her. Her tears were running freely down her cheeks but his violet eyes remained unsympathetic. "If only you didn't know…" A growl of warning rumbled low in the shed and Yaxley tilted his head to regard the tiger which had stood to its height. Waving away the warning, Yaxley returned his attention to the crying child.

"I'll forget everything tonight!" Hermione begged her new friend. She realized she would do anything to keep her first friend. If her knowledge of him being a wizard, she would force herself to forget it. "Please just…"

"I won't like to do this but it's for the good of everybody," Yaxley sighed regrettably and dug into his pocket. Just as he withdrew a wand, Storm, which had been very inactive throughout the day, leaped over the child, and stood unsteady in between the man and child. It growled low and barred its teeth and claws. Yaxley's cruel violet eyes shifted away from Hermione's and focused on the grey eyes. Yaxley noticed the tension radiating from Dolohov's limps and knew if he pursued his blood lust, he would have to take Dolohov down before getting to her. Violet eyes flicked to the cowering girl hiding behind the tiger and bit the inside of his cheek. Was this some kind of payback? Dolohov had given in to him earlier on, and he would return the favor. Funny how they were both giving in because of the same person. _Hermione Granger._

A moment passed, and then two before his lazy smile evaporated into a friendly smile and he took lighter steps around the tiger to crouch in front of the girl. Soundlessly, the tiger returned to its spot and crumpled unceremoniously with its eyes closed. "Oh peanut, that was scary, wasn't it?" he nodded sadly and allowed his countenance to evolve into one of pity. Hermione nodded slowly at him, but it was obvious she was still terrified of him. "Peanut, if you tell anyone what you saw tonight," Yaxley whispered as his eyes filled with unspoken apology while Dolohov kept an eye open on him, "they would catch me. They would force me to transform into the eagle, and they would tear my wings." Hermione's eyes blew open as her mouth opened to release a scream but all that came was a strangled choke.

"Then they would pluck my feathers, gouged out my eyes," Yaxley whispered hoarsely while he continued weaving lies into a believable threat, "and they would laugh. All. The. Time. It will end, of course it will, but only when they grow bored of me." Dolohov rolled his eyes at Yaxley's theatrical lies. Trust Yaxley to spin exaggerated stories.

 _Go for the kill._ "So, please keep it a secret between us," Yaxley softened his voice in a plea to her altruism and she nodded with all the fervor of her young self. Just like that, the heavy tension and suffocating fear was elevated in the shed. Yaxley pulled her into a hug while he looked at Dolohov who merely snorted. "They did it once to poor Dolo-"

"Storm! His name is Storm."

Yaxley pulled away from the hug to look quizzically at Hermione before looking to Dolohov who turned the other cheek and resolutely refused to look at him. A cheeky smile blossomed on Yaxley's face, and amusement twinkled unabashed in his violet eyes as he turned back to the girl. "Storm? Why do you call him Storm?"

"He had no name tag. I thought he was nameless," she murmured guiltily feeling downcast now that she realized she had renamed Corban's pet, "but he has the prettiest grey eyes! Like storm clouds!"

Yaxley chuckled and they watched the tiger cover its face with its paws. "Oh, I am sure Storm is most delighted that you admire his eyes!" Yaxley snickered at the expense of the other man. There would be time later to ridicule his best friend, but now, they had dawdled enough with the girl. It was time to wrap up the business. While Hermione was giggling as well, and Yaxley drew her into another hug and whispered, "Peanut, we're leaving tonight," Yaxley murmured into her hair as she clung onto his shoulders, "we can't stay." Just as he was about to press a pressure point on her neck, Hermione drew out of the hug.

"Can't we be long distance friends?"

Yaxley gave a quick look at Dolohov and sighed, "Well… well, I suppose we could." The last thing he expected from her since he acquiesced, was her small arms circling around him and squeezing him tightly. Innocent heartfelt hugs felt… _good_. Breathing into her hair, he patted her back and pressed her head gently onto his shoulder with his other hand. "Can you wait for my letter?"

The brightest and most innocent smile exploded on her face, and Yaxley could not stop himself from smiling faintly at her. A low growl rumbled through the shed and Yaxley looked heavenwards. It was dangerous enough for all of them, and Yaxley was sure this would come back to haunt them in future. When the Dark Lord returns, could he and Dolohov kill her? It would certainly be undeniable that they would make her death as quick and painless as possible; but… They would concern themselves about it should the occasion rise, and praise Merlin, they hope very much it would never come down to that.

"Sorry, peanut." Without warning, he pressed a pressure point in her neck and allowed Hermione's body fall limp on him. He stared at the face of the unconscious child and sighed loudly.

"She's not her."

Yaxley released an even heavier sigh as his hand combed her hair a little too naturally. "I know," he whispered softly, "but she looks so much like her. Same hair, same eyes... and the same naiveté."

Dolohov, who had already released his animagi transformation, looked at the Scot quietly and shook his head. This was the wizard known and feared for his unpredictable nature and his deadly dueling skills. He was the laughing jester, the phantom magician, the circus clown, the master of the stage. Every of his battlefield was his stage, and everyone acted only at his discretion. Even the Dark Lord was a little cautious around the wizard who was proficient and extremely creative in the use of ancient fire magic. Despite all this, he was man completely and utterly defeated by a woman. She did not even have to raise her hand, never mind be armed, to defeat him. Such was his absolute defeat. Incomprehensible, unbelievable but absolutely true. "Let the girl go, Corban," he spoke lowly as he uncorked the potions, "do not burden the girl."

"Of course," Yaxley chuckled airily and mirthlessly as his lips curled into a gentle smile, "this one is a muggleborn. They can't compare." As he carried Hermione's body as carefully as he could, he left the shed. Stealthily moving through the house, Yaxley watched her babysitter and paused in his mission. He clicked his tongue as he considered hexing the woman but decided to shake his head. His magic would have been wasted on her. He climbed the stairs and tucked the girl in her bed. Looking down on her sleeping face, Yaxley sighed and kneeled on the floor beside her. If he had married her, their daughter would have looked like every bit like peanut – taken all the beautiful features from her.

 _If only…_

Yaxley leaned closer and patted her hair lightly. "This is no fault of yours but… I really hate being reminded of my failures," he murmured as he took out a wand and pressed it gently against her neck, "it's most unfortunate that you look like her." The least he could do to this girl, would be to send her to her maker swiftly, painlessly and mercifully. Just a simple spell. No witnesses. Of course, Dolohov would know and he would be annoyed but they went too far back to hold petty grudges. It was not as if Antonin owed the peanut a life debt – it was simply about courtesy and repaying kindness. There was no doubt that if the junior aurors from earlier had insisted on entering the shed, he would have interfered and killed all of them easily. After all, he had already returned when the aurors came, poised and ready to kill but peanut… what a brave girl she was! Daring to go up against people who could very easily hurt her. Foolish but brave.

Yaxley sighed as he moved away from her and diverted his attention to the window. With the sun setting soon, he had to make a decision soon. He could not waste more time when they had an important destination in mind, and especially when Dolohov's survival was a torturous race against time. Slowly, almost a little tiredly and regrettably, Yaxley rose to his feet and walked towards the window, while the wand was carelessly tapped against his temple. He opened it and peered down at the shed. He could skip the _magical_ way of murder and decide on the _muggle_ way – just toss her out of the window. At the height, she would be impaled by the fences, or broke a few bones. If she survived the fall, he could cast a spell and have her fractures pierce her organs and she could bleed to death. No one would be wiser. It would all look _natural. Accidental._

At last, he came to a decision. He left the room with a soft click as he silently headed towards the shed to collect his best friend and continue their journey.

 _Good night Hermione Granger. You will see the light of another day if only at my discretion._

* * *

Please leave me your review as always! I would love to know what you think. Thanks!


	4. Chapter 3

A/N: Here we begin the proper rewrite. Hopefully this time, the scenes do not feel as sudden and jumpy as before.

* * *

After spending the previous night at an inn in one of the neighbouring towns, the two men had resumed their journey before dawn and now stood facing a most wicked field of ruin and destruction. What would have once been a lush and lovely flower field was now a field of overgrown weed and thorns, and where the smell of rot and decay pervaded the air. Even the sky was coloured in the brown shades of malaise and plague, and devoid of birds soaring in the air. As they quietly made their way through the maze of toppled, cracked and eroded gravestones that were covered in grime and mold, and where the engraved names of the dead could no longer be recognized, rats scurried between their legs and spiders continued weaving webs on every surface and in every corner.

Suddenly, one of the men's knees buckled and he fell unceremoniously onto one of the graves. His long, matted black hair plastered on his face as he continued perspiring. His lungs painfully heaved in the wicked air around them. His glistening face was a mixture of paleness and redness as drool leaked from the corners of his mouth. His glassy grey eyes had reddened terribly before they fluttered close as his lips puffed out and he blew hot wisps of white smoke. "Corban…"

Immediately, his companion helped him – one of his arm slung around Yaxley's shoulders while Yaxley wrapped an arm around his waist. "Hang on bastard, we are almost there," Yaxley sighed as he half dragged his deathly best friend out of the cemetery and towards haunting edifice that stood alone on the hill in the center of the weed field.

Vines wrapped themselves tightly around the walls of the structure and dirt, dust and fleece covered the once colorful rainbow windows. A broken weathered sign stood just a little off the threshold of the massive building. Sold. Gently, Yaxley ran a finger on the signpost as a fleeting smile curled on the corners of his lips before he continued trudging and pushed open the ancient doors. He continued into the dark entrance before he waved his hand.

Immediately, the doors swung shut and the chandelier lit up, followed by the fireplace and every lamp and candle in the room. The interior of the building betrayed the haunting mystery that its exterior had portrayed. Yaxley deposited his best friend on the sofa carefully before he fell gracelessly into a nearby armchair.

"Master!" a small house elf in an old apron chirped as she curtsied before Yaxley, "Potsie welcomes Master! Potsie is happy!"

Ignoring the doe-eyed elf, Yaxley gingerly dragged the tip of his wand against the top of his clothes down to his naval. His clothes tore open and he winced as the air touched his skin.

"Master!" Potsie whined as she stared at her master's battered torso, "Potsie be he-"

"No," Yaxley grimaced as he inspected the severity of each of his wound, "Antonin needs healing."

"Anto- Grumpie Wizzie?" the elf repeated as she tilted her head before she slowly turned to see the other wizard and a startled gasp escaped her, "G-Grumpie Wizzie be alive? Master succeeds! Master succeeds! Potsie believes! Potsie always believes!" Immediately, she twirled excitedly as she skipped towards the unconscious wizard and summoned an array of flasks. She began working on injecting the wizard with multiple potions before she transported him into a room on the upper floors.

* * *

When she returned to the drawing room, her master had disappeared leaving his devastated clothes behind and a light blood trail for her to follow. She followed his footsteps, taking turns and passing by rooms until she stopped before a pair of huge mahogany doors that was left marginally ajar. "Master?" she called as she pressed her webbed fingers against the door and slowly walked into her master's haven, "Does Master need Potsie? Potsie serves. Potsie always serves!"

Her webbed feet curled as they stepped onto the deep green grass. Bushes of different flowers lined neatly and beautifully. Just beyond the bed of flowers, a noticeable footpath was flanked by groves of various species of trees whose branches spread wild and free. A small herd of unicorns trotted towards her, neighed gently before they turned and travelled towards the woods. Potsie stared at the silvery manes before she followed them and allowed her webbed fingers to brush against the tree trunks that she passed by. The deeper she went into the woods, the louder the sound of rushing waters and then, she ran as fast as she could. A small waterfall appeared in the clearing and she grinned excitedly. The light reflected off the water looked like a finely meshed net. The water was crystal clear, and it was marvelously easy to spot the fish that swam at the bottom. Suddenly, a Kelpie exploded through the calm surface and flipped its glorious purple mane before it dived into the water again. Potsie laughed jovially as she was drenched twice by the playful sea horse, and she shuffled closer to the edge of the small lake and dipped her hands in. Curious fish swam around and tickled her hands as she laughed excitedly before a shadow loomed over her and the fish dispersed swiftly in various directions.

"Having fun?"

Guiltily, the elf took her hands out of the water and turned slowly to her master. Her eyes remained cast downwards as her ears flattened against her head. She should have remembered this was her master's favorite place, his sanctuary. As her lips wobbled, she clasped her hands in front of her and stood rigidly before him. "Potsie begs forgi-"

"How is Antonin?" Yaxley interrupted as he waved her apology away.

"Grumpie Wizzie rest. Many many!" Potsie reported. As she continued reporting to him a lengthy observation report, she peeked at her master who sighed and walked around her. His face a mixture of sadness, loneliness and helplessness, and even his violet eyes that usually danced with delight looked dull and empty. He knelt beside her and gently slipped his hand into the water. Potsie watched as the Kelpie from before swam towards her master and gently broke the surface. A small smile curled on her master's face as his eyes lit brightly. Her master stroked the horse's mane gently and she maintained her silence as she observed the serene yet despairing look on his face.

After a long time of kneading and checking on the vitals of the beast, Yaxley waved the Kelpie away as he ordered Potsie to pick a various number of leaves from the garden. Alone, he stared at his reflection on the still water surface. Deep violet eyes stared at him in a strange mixture of apathy, remorse and relief. If he had his way, he would have flown home directly from Azkaban with the skinny bastard. Alas, there was a reason it was renowned for its impregnable defenses and the negligible chances of prison escape. The wounds he suffered were not shallow, but at least, they were not fatal. For now, the Russian bastard was safe, but it would be sooner rather than later before they came to find him here. Yaxley scratched his chin as he pondered if he could have polished his plan better, but he found that he could not. Flying home would have been a wrong move, as much as it seemed to be the best move considering Antonin's broken state. They needed to move as roundabout as possible without the weak Russian bleeding to death; if only to create diversions and stall for time. The only problem was that he had initiated the plan much earlier than expected but was it terribly bad? After all, there was not a time like the present especially when-

"Master," Potsie called softly as she stood beside her master who jolted a little, "Potsie collects."

Yaxley looked at the bounty in her arms, levitated them into the air before he alchemized the ingredients into a salve that he spread carefully on his wounds. Hissing and wincing, he clenched his eyes as his wounds burnt and released white wisps of steam. Carefully, he summoned his clothes, donned them and walked away from the lake. Potsie followed him close behind and she watched as the branches extended and the vines festoons them to close the path and hid the peaceful haven. As Potsie left the garden, she stared at her master who leaned his forehead against the locked doors.

"Master? Master be fine?"

"Potsie," Yaxley croaked as he turned to look at his loyal servant, "Is this enough? Will they ever-?"

How many times had she been asked by her master over the years? Potsie knew about his nightmares, and the feelings and thoughts he would never speak aloud but allowed them to shine brightly in his eyes if only people would look past the cruel façade. Potsie never needed him to tell her who he meant or what his questions truly meant – it just felt to her like she _inherently_ knew. After all, she had seen him grow from a good boy to a lost adolescent to a despaired adult and finally to a wizard who kept his feelings and thoughts silent under the mask of a jester.

Potsie stared at the violet eyes that were shining with unshed tears, and simply kept silent and averted her eyes from him. Those violet eyes usually twinkled with mirth, or darkened with anger but hardly ever shined with tears. It was not often her master would be emotional but when he did, she would gladly allow him the chance. This was the only reason she had, the only reason for her to believe that he was not the mad wizard the world loved to believe. He was certainly, beyond all doubts, still sane. Regardless of what anyone would tell her, Potsie firmly believed her master was most certainly _human_ and faraway from heartless.

Closing his eyes, Yaxley took deep breaths and exhaled slowly. When he finally reopened them, he looked at his watch and sighed heavily. He had dawdled for too long musing over senseless things, when there were more important things to do. "Potsie, see to it that Antonin recovers peacefully," he ordered as he walked past her, "I have a very important appointment at Malfoy's Manor."

"Master…"

"What is it?" Yaxley looked over his shoulder at the little elf whose webbed hands were fretting on the hem of her clothes.

"Potsie…" she fumbled over her words as she peeked at her master who had turned around to fully face her, "Potsie believe… enough. They be happy, master."

Yaxley blinked at her and then for a flicker of a moment, a small genuine smile curled on his face as his serenity shined in his eyes.

 _Thank you for lying._

* * *

Please leave me a review! Thanks! I am really interested in reading your opinion on my take of Yaxley!


	5. Chapter 4

A/N: The first part of this chapter should look a little familiar. The addition is in the second part.

* * *

"Mistress, a man awaits in the drawing room," a house elf announced timidly as he kept his head bowed. His ears twitched every few seconds, while he waited for the lady's acknowledgement. The beautiful woman sat upright and regal in front of her vanity. Her voluminous black hair with blonde highlights cascaded over fair shoulders matched exotically well with her red evening gown that accented her curves and aroused suspicion of endless legs that hid under the flowing skirt. She epitomized classy temptation and elegance.

She rose and glided across the room to tower before the quivering house elf. A beautifully shaped eyebrow raised just slightly as she pursed her lips. A man, who was not her husband, was waiting for her? Surely, her beloved would have told her sometime early today before he left the manor; it was unlike him to forget reminding her of a possible guest. Picking her wand, she dismissed the house elf with orders to send word to her husband while she made her way to the parlor. Should a duel break out, she would fend the intruder until her husband, no doubt rushing back to her and their son, would return. She was not a simple witch – she was Narcissa Malfoy, wife of Lucius Malfoy and beloved younger sister of Bellatrix Lestrange and daughter of Cygnus and Druella Black. She was not a witch to be trifled with.

Innocent laughter that sounded suspiciously like her son's echoed in the corridor, and she found herself picking up her pace. Whoever their guest was, it was obvious Draco was acquainted with them and been introduced to as… _harmless_. No, no, not harmless but a parent's friend which only meant one thing – their uninvited guest was a Death Eater, a follower of the fallen Dark Lord. Only her husband's colleagues had the gall to thread into Malfoy's Manor uninvited. Narcissa frowned just briefly as she hazarded a guess for their guest's identity – there were not many free-walking Death Eaters who were cunning enough to evade Azkaban.

Turning a corner, she entered the parlor and saw the cheerful grin of her young son and smiled faintly until she spotted the back of a blonde's head. Her faint smile dropped immediately and replaced by a mask of cold indifference as she walked around the blond-haired man and intentionally walked in front of her son. The guest rose to his feet as soon as he saw her, and he gave her a polite but appreciative glance at her attire. "Yaxley," she sneered as she ran her hand through her son's hair if only to keep her hands from reaching for her wand, "what a surprise."

The violet-eyed man smiled widely and toothily as he took her hand in his. "Narcissa _Black_ , always the beautiful witch," Yaxley hummed as he kissed the back of palm lightly before he released his hold and retreated to his seat, "Where is your husband?"

Narcissa narrowed her eyes at the man as she not too gently, pushed Draco behind her as she slowly settled into a seat opposite to Yaxley. It did not go unnoticed that Yaxley would use her maiden name – the man had always insisted on acknowledging her and she had long given up knowing why he continued addressing her as such. She had used multiple tactics and employed different people to buy his answer only to be faced with no answer. She had even gone as far as to enlist Dolohov in her quest, only to be met with failure. After the series of failures, she had come to accept Yaxley did as he wanted, _untamable_ , and there was no logical reason for his choice of addressing her. He was as uncontrollable as Dolohov.

Narcissa gave a quick kiss to Draco's crown if only to recompose her thoughts to the matter at hand. Whatever happened between Yaxley and her was moot point; she was still very much in love with Lucius. She breathed deeply as she rested her left hand on the son's head, just so she could feel him physically there. It was unthinkable to usher Draco away from the room, especially when Dolohov, who had escaped Azkaban, could be skulking the corridors of the manor – it would be expected of the ruffian. "Your dealings with my husband can be dealt through me," she said firmly while she counted the seconds until Lucius' return. There was no way she would be able to fend off Yaxley and Dolohov on her own should a duel erupt; there was a reason why Dolohov was one of the Dark Lord's most trusted soloist.

Yaxley shook his head and smiled lightly, "As much as I enjoy your company, it is Lucius I seek."

"Insist and you'll see that there will be no deals."

He frowned at her before his face relaxed again and he leaned into the chair lazily. Drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair, he relented and huffed, "I require him to flex the power that comes coupled with his… _position_ in the society."

Narcissa could not stop the bark of laughter that erupted from her. Try as she might, hearing Yaxley's confession was hilarious. "Who would have thought Yaxley the Harbinger would seek out a Malfoy for help," she mocked as her smile threatened to stretch into a genuine amused smile. It had been a long time since she had genuinely laugh because of someone other than her husband. Biting her bottom lip lightly, her right index finger rested on the corner of her lips while she tilted her head to the side to screen the seriousness of her guest. Certainly, Yaxley had been playful and lazy when he said that but there was no mistaking the undercurrent of seriousness.

"Surely, even your Divination would prophesize at least that much," Yaxley mocked and smiled cheerfully at the amusement that evaporated from his host's face. It was a secret she spilled to him once when she was tipsy and worried for her husband. He was pleasantly surprised when she revealed to him that Divination was a class she never did excel in despite her spectacular results in school. Indeed, a drunk's words are the thoughts of a sober's.

"Might I remind you that you're in _my_ domain?" Narcissa bit as she glared at the presumably carefree man.

"Impeccable timing for a reminder," Yaxley laughed as he raised both his hands in a mocking surrender as he shook his head. Smiling knowingly, he slid his eyes to lazily survey the room and shrugged his shoulders, "There is something about this place – it makes me forget my manners."

The light twinkled in his eyes and Narcissa pursed her lips. She closed her eyes briefly while she combed her hand through her son's soft hair to calm herself. There was no need to be aggrieved with his taunts. When she reopened her eyes, she released a long sigh that she made certain he would know she was exasperated with him. "Where is he who created chaos in the ministry?"

"Who knows? I'm not his keeper."

"Not his keeper? Color me surprised!" Narcissa gasped as she covered her mouth with her palm if only to hide the grin and smother the giggle that she felt in her throat. The darkening of those violet eyes was all the evidence she needed to know that she had effectively gotten under his skin. Turnabout was fair play after all. As she battled to keep the smile from stretching on her face, she was almost disappointed and wary when the violet eyes lightened as if a storm had ceased brewing.

"My dear, Narcissa," Yaxley sighed as he crossed his arms and his lazy posture straightened, "be careful of your tongue." His eyes fixed her with a bored gaze that she knew meant he was moving away from his playful side. His eyes slowly moved around her face before they returned to her eyes and he whispered, "I'd hate for it to be the reason for your... sudden, shall we say, _imperfections_."

Narcissa straightened her own posture, and stiffened her back. It seemed Yaxley was finally ready to throw the gauntlets and it was a double-edged sword. A serious Yaxley meant he was finally ready to do business, and it meant he would not hesitate to kill if the proceedings got too cumbersome for him. "Believe me," she spoke carefully as she held his eyes in a steady stare. She had to thread carefully now, it was dangerous waters she was going through. "If I had my way, you would've been six feet under the porch." She would not cower and falter before him. He was still very much in her territory and she would make certain he would think twice before he threatened her in her own home.

"I won't put it pass you," Yaxley agreed as he crossed his arms, "Name your price, madam."

Narcissa raised her chin and looked down at him dispassionately. "Such arrogance," she hissed as her eyes met his violet ones, "Perhaps you need a lesson in lowering your head – _beg me_."

Yaxley closed his eyes and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he hung his head. As he slowly released a long sigh, he opened his eyes to look at her from beneath his lashes. With his supposedly submissive stance, it almost looked as if Narcissa had all the power in the trade. It almost felt as if she, alone, would design the trade and he would willingly agree to her wishes. _Almost…_ She, however, was aware of the man she was dealing with. Nothing about him was predictable and he was certainly not submissive.

"If that is what the lady wishes, I will not deny her," Yaxley murmured as his eyes slowly left hers to deliberately slide over to the young boy; before his eyes returned to hers, and he helplessly and ruefully sighed, "but someone will certainly suff-"

Narcissa had bolted from her seat, crossed the distance between them and slapped him across the face. Her hand was stinging from the slap as she glowered at the man who was looking up at her face. His face was impassive as if he had not felt the pain of her slap, but she smiled inwardly at the blossoming red blush on his cheek. "You will not touch Draco," she hissed coldly and protectively as she forced every word out very carefully, "you will never involve him in your madness."

"Only if you desert that price."

Narcissa narrowed her eyes down at the carelessness of the man. His lack of reaction was certainly a much more favorable result. If stories of him were true, Yaxley was not a man to be trifled with despite the usual façade of friendliness. She licked her lips as she settled for her price – it was a long shot but Merlin, she hoped he would agree to it. "You will protect Draco." He clicked his tongue as he looked at her and he slowly rose to his feet. Narcissa found herself just slightly shorter than his full height and frowned at the proximity between them. His breaths peppered her nose but she would not allow herself to react to that. She would not give him the pleasure of knowing he had made her uncomfortable.

"A mother's price then," he breathed softly, "Exactly what are your terms?"

"Should Draco ever be endangered," Narcissa kept her voice soft and measured as she continued to glare into those dangerous violet eyes, "you will abandon your position and forfeit your life for his."

"That's a high price you're demanding," he chided as his hand ghosted over the frown lines decorating her forehead.

"Do not pretend you did not know this when you came here."

Yaxley sighed as he dropped his hand and leaned his head until his nose was a hair's breadth away from hers. "Indeed, I am caught guilty," he murmured as he looked at her and finally relented, "One time, _and only once_ , I will lay my life to protect him should his life be threatened."

His warm breath assaulted her face, and Narcissa finally withdrew from him and turned away from him to return to her son. She did not have to look to know he was still standing in his spot and she cast a blood oath that bound them to their trade. Bending down to hug her son close to her, she promised him that she would ensure that Lucius would assist.

"I'm sure you will – someone who tinkers with blood magic as a hobby would be quite aware of its repercussions."

Narcissa would not turn to address him. As far as she was concerned, they had no reason to continue conversing – they had both extracted what they wanted from the other. Any more talk would simply be idle talk. "Your concern for me is cute," she sneered as she maintained her back to him, "but you would be wise to worry about yourself."

A period of silence came and past, and Narcissa felt a phantom breath on her nape. She was almost compelled to turn around but her sheer stubbornness and pride kept her back to him. "It was a hard bargain you drove – I cannot compete with a mother's ferocity – but it's not impossible to fulfil." After his soft admittance and his shuffling, she finally released a breath. Who knew when she had been holding her breath, but she could only hope she had little to no future communication with him without her husband.

* * *

It was almost half an hour since he received an urgent note from his wife, that Lucius found himself standing on the threshold of his home. Without discarding his coat or hat, he rushed into the drawing room and found his beloved wife hugging their son. He slowed down his long strides to smaller steps as he carefully approached his wife. Gently, he touched her shoulder and smiled gently when her blue eyes looked at him. He moved a step backwards as she laid their sleeping son on the seat before she rose to melt into his embrace. He continued holding her, stroking her back comfortingly as he waited patiently for her to speak.

"Lucius, my darling," Narcissa whispered as she moved half a step out of the embrace and curled her hands around his neck, "I am most relieved you're here now."

Stroking her cheek gently with the back of his palm, Lucius looked down at his beautiful wife. "My love, are you harmed?" he asked as his grey eyes assessed her worryingly, and when she shook her head, he breathed a little easier. "What happened?"

"Yaxley," Narcissa spoke clearly and her husband's features immediately darkened as he stared into her eyes just a little more deeply, "he was here."

"Did he touch you? Did he threaten you?" Lucius asked urgently as he pulled her into an embrace. His hand held her back protectively as his other hand nudged her chin up. He tilted her chin gently but firmly as he looked carefully for any hint of injury. How dare the mad jester intruded on his compound? How did he even know that it was an opportune time to intrude when his wife and son was alone? Was one of the servants an insider? Someone was definitely going to pay the price for this.

"I extracted a blood pact from him – he will protect Draco," Narcissa informed him and he blinked in surprise. Pride filled his grey eyes as he looked at his wife adoringly and proudly. To extract a trade from the mad man was truly noteworthy, and something as priceless as that was an even greater accomplishment. She was truly deserving to be his equal, and certainly a true Black princess. He planted a kiss on her cheeks, nose and a lingering kiss on her lips. He was truly immensely proud of her.

"What is the other half of the trade?" he asked as he rested his head on hers and closed his eyes. If the jester was as unpredictable as he was five years ago, anything could be the price – even something as menial as writing a seasonal greeting to him.

"He wants you to do something for him." Lucius opened his eyes as he looked at his wife as if to discern more. His eyebrows were pulled, and his lips curled into a bemused frown. "Something only your authority can."

Immediately, he turned away from his wife and clenched his teeth. Anger radiated from him as he unsheathed his wand with trembling hands. Fury glowed in his grey eyes as he marched towards the window and glared at the tranquillity outside. A poor excuse for an aristocrat making demands as preposterous as that was unheard of. Did the ruffian forget the hierarchy? To think he had the gall to waltz past his gates and demand his wife's cooperation in the presence of his defenceless heir! The nerve! Did he forget just how disgraceful his family was? That blasted scoundrel was truly the embodiment of disgrace just like his predecessors – the Yaxleys have been known to ignore societal rules. From Salvador Yaxley, the mad patriarch who killed aristocrats for sport to Alexandria Yaxley's marriage to a foreign plebeian with questionable background; indeed, the Yaxley line was overflowing with flaws, and equally disgusting as the poor blood traitors that were the Weasleys. Of course, all these were without even mentioning Yaxley's failed proposal – a pureblood rejected by a woman in favour of a muggleborn. Truly laughable!

As her husband continued simmering in his fury, Narcissa slowly approached her husband and carefully wrapped her arms around his torso before resting her cheek on his back. Was it not good that Yaxley had sworn to protect Draco? What was the use of familial pride in dealing with a devil's spawn who refused to play by the rules of anyone but his own? "Lucius," Narcissa whispered her his name softly and lovingly as she sought to remind him of priorities, "we've been promised Draco's protection, isn't that enough?"

Lucius shuddered as he took huge calming breaths before he rested an elbow on the window sill while his other hand dropped his cane to grasp his wife's interlocked fingers. "You're right, my love," he agreed softly as he played lightly with the ring on her finger, "but I will ensure he learns the price of his arrogance." Finally, he turned around and cradled her face in his hands before he planted a deep lingering kiss on her lips. Reluctantly, he disengaged and excused himself to his study to write a most annoying letter.

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Please leave me a review, thanks!


	6. Chapter 5

A/N: Thank you for the renewed support and reviews! Thank you for your patience!

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After leaving Malfoy's Manor, Yaxley swiftly returned home. There was no doubt that Malfoy would try to engage him in a meeting because they would know better than to reject his demands. After all, rejecting him would lead to two consequences that were favorable to him and terribly unfortunate to them – he would be absolved from the blood pact and free to kill them for their failure to uphold their bargain, and Narcissa, most unfortunately, would suffer the consequences of blood magic. There was then, absolutely no way Malfoy would allow his wife, whom he proclaimed on plenty occasions to love most dearly, to die.

Yaxley sighed as he closed his eyes and continued mulling as he walked the ancient hallways of his home. There were plenty of things he wanted from Malfoy – from creating a safe and discreet passage to get in and out of Britain, to stealing Dolohov's magical weapons from the ministry to perhaps, something so trivial like getting a cupcake from Honeydukes. He shook his head and chided his indecision. If he was truthful, Yaxley had not truly decided what he wanted but securing Malfoy's authority was beneficial in any case. With Malfoy waiting and fretting on the wings and drawing all the attention, there was less focus on him and more freedom for him to sit back, and orchestrate the chaos like a master puppeteer. Perhaps, this was a welcoming headache that could be dealt on another day. Right now, there was something more important.

 _Dolohov._

He stopped walking and stared at the door of the room his feet had instinctively stopped at. Breathing in deeply, he turned the knob gently and pushed the door open as softly as he could. He entered the sparsely furnished bedroom and closed the door lightly before he made a beeline and took residence on the seat by the bed. He looked around the familiar room and sighed quietly. Ceiling tall bookshelves lined the walls, and even then, there were rolled up parchments, dog-eared papers, tattered maps and books with frayed and old covers messily shoved into every corner of the shelves. A small square table with a chess board carved into it stood by a window and a pair of oddly matched chairs sandwiched it. There was no drawer, much less a walk-in wardrobe but a humble locked chest sat at the foot of the bed.

Yaxley shook his head as he noted all the worn-out furniture and leaned into his seat. How many times over the years had he visited this ghostly room and left it untouched? His deep loneliness had often paralyzed him whenever he found himself sitting by table and staring at the blank chess board. Five years of guilt and silence but it had finally ended. The winter of his life had passed. His eyes slid over as he watched the unconscious wizard in bed and he sighed heavily.

Five years ago, they had argued and fought for many days and nights until he had reluctantly and wholly unwillingly, agreed to the plan that the bastard would assume complete responsibility of everything. The bastard had brought up the most compelling point, a sucker punch and a low blow but one that he had almost been too willing to jump on – _she_ would not be safe even after the fall of their leader. In any scenario where he were imprisoned with or without the bastard, they knew _she_ would be fair game to anyone and her death would have been slow and painful. He was sure even his friendship with Dolohov would not guarantee her safety; at most, the bastard would have promised not to actively hunt her but that also meant the Russian would not interfere if a colleague of theirs threatened to kill her. It was this awareness and desperation that pushed him to agree on the plan of keeping him out of prison as the best option to safeguard their interests. They had practiced over and over every action, every word and every muscular twitch until they allowed themselves to believe the lie as the truth and then, surrendered themselves to the Wizengamot.

Withdrawing a wand from his inner pocket, he wrapped Dolohov's fingers around it and then he covered the bony hand with both his hands. "Just a little longer, brother," he promised as he stared at the sleeping sunken face and squeezed the hand before he released it and returned the wand into his coat pocket. He blinked furtively and rubbed the cold hand when he saw a drop of water splashed onto the clammy skin. "Hang on and don't you dare die on me, bastard," he whispered in a voice that trembled a little too much for his liking, "I didn't go through Hell just for you to die." Blowing a sigh that sounded too defeated and exhausted, he pressed his hands on his knees and slowly rose to his feet and left the room without a backward glance.

Yaxley leaned his back against the closed door and dug into his breast pocket and pulled out a crumpled photograph that he carried everywhere with him. It was a picture of a girl with her arms around two boys who stood on either side of her, a man stood behind the trio, and the Eiffel Tower in Muggle Paris filled the background. He stared at the picture for a long time as his mind drifted. There was a time when murder and war were non-existent concepts in their minds but fate, the cruel mistress that she was, had rolled the dice and their lives took a sharp turn and derailed from the path of innocent ignorance. Boyish dreams of being an international sports superstars faded into nothingness and the sweet caress of promises whispered and cajoled them onto the path of becoming the wizards they were today.

Yaxley shut his eyes as he knocked the back of his head against the door and clenched the final remnant of a dream that would never be realized. Of the people in the picture, only one remained by his side. The one to have completely accepted him as he was and explored the great wonders and horrors of life with him. They stuck together through the highs and lows, and throughout their transformations and growth, constantly watching the back of the other, protecting and supporting until five years ago. Was it a mistake to have allowed Dolohov to convince him? No, the bastard would not have been convincing if he had not been grasping on straws for a plan to stay out of prison. Truly, his feelings for the woman should have died but time had proved that his affections for her seemed to be an immortal flame that continued to burn brightly. When it came to her, there was _almost_ no price too high.

Yaxley chuckled bitterly as he shoved the picture into his pocket. What did it say of him? A creepy man shrouded by the shadows, watching a woman who had never and would never reciprocate his affections. To remain invisible to her, never mind talk to her, and made the center of jokes and rumors as a love's fool if only to safeguard her reputation; was he not worse than a muggle man? Even the weakest men of them, surely, would have walked on and ignored because was that not self-respect, pride and dignity? For a wizard as feared as he was to be reduced and mocked for being stood up at his own wedding, and refusing to tell the truth, he was truly pathetic. Why could he not take the ruthless and self-centered way, as his colleagues do, and speak the truth? Why was he even compelled to protect the interest of a woman who had scorned him and married a man who could not protect her and failed her plenty of times? Did his love for her truly paled in comparison to –

 _Let it go, it's over._

Yaxley shivered as the familiar voice advised him. How many times in his life has he heard the Russian bastard said that? He inhaled in deeply and released it in small shuddering gasps and repeated the breathing cycle until his heart calmed down and his mind returned to the present. Opening his eyes, he blinked multiple times before he rubbed his face in an attempt to physically urge himself to refocus. There were bigger things to do than remain in a vicious sea of questions without answers. "It doesn't matter," he whispered as he pushed himself from the door and lumbered towards his bedroom, "as long as she's happy and safe. That's all you can do for her… and that should be enough."

Entering his bedroom, he looked at his bookshelves and pushed one of them to reveal a small walk-in wardrobe. Crouching a little, he entered and inspected the rows of flasks that were type and alphabetically arranged. He moved a little deeper in his hidden treasure room and ran a lingering finger on the names of all the bottles until it hovered over the name Thomas Mills. Uncorking the flask, he took a deep whiff of the putrid smell, gagged and cursed the smell before he resealed and pocketed the flask. Upon exiting the hidden compartment, he paused to look at a black rectangular box and he had to restrain the urge to reach out for it. He smiled apologetically and whispered, "It's not time for you. There's still a few more things for me to do. When your time finally comes, I hope you will forgive me and be obedient."

Finally, he left the hidden chamber, waved the bookshelf to hide the room and left his bedroom. As he stopped momentarily by a set of stairs and stared at the door at the end of the stairs. It was the only set of stairs he had never thought to use since his grandfather's will was read to him – he was forbidden to open the door regardless of circumstance. In fact, he could not remember if he had ever ventured into the forbidden room even when his grandfather was still alive. Perhaps, now, almost three decades later, the curse his grandfather cast to lock the room had weakened or better yet, vanished. He was barely on the second step when he was interrupted.

"Master?"

Yaxley stopped and he slowly turned to look at the house elf that had been a faithful servant to his family for generations. Her tiny webbed fingers were clutching the hem of her little apron and her huge eyes stared at him in a mixture of dread and fear. "Master, do not," the house elf implored and Yaxley frowned at her, "Potsie cannot let door open. Potsie guards."

"You will defy me, your master?" Yaxley asked as he raised an eyebrow, "You will obey my grandfather and go against me?"

"Elder commands, Master," the elf answered pitifully as huge drops of tears filled the corners of her eyes, "Potsie cannot forget. Potsie begs Master."

As her huge eyes begged for him to understand, Yaxley frowned before he turned to look at the door. For the family's house elf to continue carrying the order of the previous master and that she would go as far as to hurt him if it meant the order was kept, it had to be a secret that needed the most opportune time to reveal. Yaxley sighed heavily. As much as she was not allowed to strike him because of a house elf law, there were still stronger laws and Yaxley had no doubts that his grandfather must have invoked those stronger laws. Perhaps, if he killed her, he could uncover the secrets but… he would be patient.

"Oh, very well, have it your way then," Yaxley huffed as he returned to the ground floor of his home and strolled to the main entrance and watched the shadow of the elf following him, "What is it now?"

"Potsie be waiting here," the elf promised as she looked into her master's eyes.

Yaxley turned to look down at her huge determined doe eyes and allowed his lips to curl into a light amused smile, "Worried about me? You're adorable. No one who wants to trap your master is strong enough to trap him."

When Yaxley finally left his home, Potsie watched the back of her master disappear among the graves and her face turned mournful. His violet eyes had twinkled with dark malice and amusement but she could not help feeling as if she was staring into deep whirlpools of sorrow, guilt and loneliness. Whatever her master was doing, she hoped it would not burden his soul further. She might be naively loyal to him, but she believed that there lies a man in him who truly loved life. After all, his healthy secret garden – greenhouse, he had insisted she called it that – should be testament and proof that he was not the cold-blooded maniac that killed simply because he could. Someone whom unicorns and kelpies did not fear and, in fact, lived harmoniously and playfully with simply could not be evil.

"Potsie believes Master, always."

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As always, should there be a question you want answered or something you want to read happening in the story, please leave me a review. Thanks! Until the next chapter!


	7. Chapter 6

A/N: Thank you for the support and reviews!

* * *

Soaring across the London sky, the eagle finally circled around a tall building's roof before it magically disappeared and a blond-haired man suddenly appeared on the roof. He peered over the roof's ledge and scanned at the crowd moving below. All of them seemed so blissfully unaware of the dangers lurking around them, so focused in getting from one place to another that it was almost disappointing. He had hoped for a little more challenge, but alas, it mattered little. As long as his final solo act was performed successfully, the wizarding world would learn that the mad jester who was never gone had finally begin rousing from his long slumber. It would be too late for them then, because the trumpet would have been blown and the Executioner would have signaled his return, and the Dark Lord's court would once again rise and assemble. All those who believed that the dark court was gone would rue the day they celebrated a victory that never was.

Combing a hand through his blond hair, he laughed softly to himself as he jumped off the ledge and dived into the small space between two buildings. Upon landing safely on his feet, he stood up carefully and patted his pockets to be sure that everything was still where they should be. As he shuffled towards the brighter end of the alley, his shoulders brushed against the walls that flanked him until he stopped just a little off the mouth of the alley. Pressing himself against one of the walls, he dug in his pocket for a small flask, uncorked it and swallowed the contents in one gulp.

Slowly, his blond hair turned darker until it was completely black, and his skin became tanner, and his face softened its edges to assume a younger and more boyish appearance. The laughter lines around his eyes had melted away and freckles appeared in their place, and the faint hint of facial hair had completely disappeared. Almost too vain, he took out a mirror and inspected his new look. Everything looked perfect – even the boyish grin on his face was exactly as he envisioned – except for the notable laughing violet eyes that leered mockingly at him.

He shook his head a little amused, lowered his head and escaped the alley. Walking among the common muggles, he slipped into an optical shop and quickly bought a random pair of shades before anyone could try to start a small chat with him. Swiftly, he made a beeline to a phone booth and leaned against the phone. Picking up the phone, he breathed deeply, "It's showtime!" He input the code carefully and relaxed his body as he was taken to the underground organization.

Thomas Mills grinned boyishly as he walked out of the lift and headed to the receptionist whom he greeted warmly and inquired about her day before he turned towards a department called Magical Registry. Along the way, he greeted everyone jovially, shook hands and nodded humbly before he politely excused himself.

Just as Thomas was entering the department, a hand clasped on his shoulder and roughly dragged him back and spun him until he was pinned against the wall. Thomas looked up into the face of a mean man.

His brown hair was cut short at the sides, but his slanted fringe fell over half his face. His lips had curled into an ugly sneer as he tilted his chin up to glare down at Thomas from the corner of his eyes. "Well, well, if it isn't Tommy the farmer's son," he snickered as he squeezed the shoulder harder and his lips curled a little more vicious. "You're trying to be one of the cool kids now with your little shades?"

"I've sore eyes so I need my sunglasses to avoid infecting others," Thomas Mills replied as he grimaced noticeably from the pain that shot from his shoulder. "Do you mind if I go now? I plan to catch up with my piling work."

"Oh, goody two shoes, Tommy Milly," the brown-haired man taunted as he continued squeezing the shoulder, and then he pulled out his wand to tap on his cheek. Looking at Thomas from the corner of his eye, he continued mocking, "Surely you've time to talk to aurors? Everyone wants to be friends with an auror. Everyone wants to curry favors with us; work can always wait, don't you think?"

"I'm not interested," Thomas snarled as he slapped the hand that had been squeezing his shoulder painfully and glared at the mocking blue eye from behind his black sunglasses. "Get out of my way, I'm busy."

"For a squirt, you've got guts to bare your tiny fangs at me," the auror sneered as he narrowed his eyes and jabbed his wand tip into Thomas' chin, "I've got every permission to kill my enemies, and that includes rude little twerps like you. "

"I'd like to see you try," Thomas challenged as he whipped out his wand and pressed its tip on the auror's chest exactly where the auror's heart was beginning to beat a little harder. Excitement was building in Thomas as his blood was rumbling in his ears.

 _Provoke me more..._

As the wizards continued to stand off, suddenly, an arm slung over the auror's shoulders as a friendly face popped over his shoulder. His golden hair was swept back, and his brown eyes shined brightly as he came around and pushed both wands away. "Come on, Garry, leave Mills alone," he chided as he smiled kindly at Thomas who continued glaring, "we shouldn't bully the weak and defenseless."

"Oh sure, Pete," Garry snickered as he swept his long brown fringe off his face as he looked pitifully at the glaring junior registrar, "well scurry along, poor rat. A farmer's boy can never aspire to be an auror anyway. Be sure to thank your hero 'cos not everyone's gonna come to your rescue all the time." He chortled as he walked away leaving his friend to deal with the ministry worker.

"Don't mind him, Mills," Pete advised as they watched Garry walk away. "You know Garry has always been like that."

Thomas hummed a non-committal sound and Pete smiled apologetically before he excused himself to walk the same exit as Garry had. "You're Williamson?" Thomas suddenly asked just as Pete was about to turn a corner, "As in Peter Williamson?"

"Yeah, that's me. We joined the ministry together, remember?" Peter smiled as he patted his chest and waved goodbye. Had Peter stayed just a fraction of a moment longer, he would have noticed the unusual sinister smile that had curled on the usually submissive junior registrar.

Thomas stood in the spot a little longer before he turned his heel and entered the registry department. Quickly, he got to work and began fetching the personal details of the pair of junior aurors. How dare they touched him! How dare they think themselves to be superior to him! Ridiculous! He vowed they would pay the price for their impertinence, and they would pay so very dearly.

"Hey Tommy, you're looking a little weird."

"Huh?" Thomas blinked as he looked up to a worried face.

"Are you alright?"

Thomas blinked again before he nodded and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, the vacation ended too early," he stuttered and scratched his cheek, "I'll brew myself a cup and be right at my work."

"Yeah, you do that," she nodded before she came closer and whispered, "You weren't around when the news came out but they said a Death Eater broke out of Azkaban!"

"No way, you're kidding!" Thomas exclaimed as he stood up and stared seriously into her eyes. He lowered his voice and continued urgently, "It's Azkaban! No one escapes from there!"

"Yeah that's what everyone thought," she countered, "but there are rumors that the one who broke out is You-Know-Who's scary you-know-what."

"They're all terrifying, if you ask me," Thomas muttered under his breath, "and a little crazy somewhere."

"You've a point," she conceded easily, "but it's the Russian killer that broke out! So we're all on red alert now and his weapons that are confiscated –"

"Alice! Thomas! Get to work! You're not being paid to flirt!"

"What about his weapons?" Thomas whispered urgently as he grabbed her wrist just as she was returning to her desk, "You can't tell me half a gossip and leave! That's rude!"

"I heard that they're transferring his weapons to Hogwarts to be guarded by the strongest wizards and witches…and Dumbledore!"

"When is the transfer happening?"

"Today at lunch."

Thomas stared at the clock at the far wall and nodded numbly as he released her. He did not have enough time – he had to make his move now or retrieving the blades would be impossible. Williamson and Collymore could wait. Thomas gritted his teeth as he began searching hastily over the table to look for a map of the ministry. Marking out his current position and the position of the sacred blades, Thomas pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the desk. There were plenty of ways to get to the blades, but the straight path was the fastest. With the Aurors moving faster than he anticipated, he had to take risks and race against time. There was no room for deliberation.

Hastily, Thomas crammed the files into his bottomless coat pocket and left his department. Striding swiftly and purposefully, he ignored everyone as he crossed the atrium towards the department of magical artifacts. He needed to get the blades. He could hear their cruel laughter and feel their hunger.

 _Skin. Kill. Decimate. Chaos._

"Mills, what are you doing here?"

Thomas stopped abruptly and looked up as if he were a deer caught in the headlights. Turning his head around dazedly, he finally found the person who called him – the receptionist of the department of magical artifacts. "I…" he huffed as he forcefully recomposed himself, "I have been sent by the department to do a final check on Do-the weapons."

"There's no need to, Mills," she replied as she stared at him suspiciously through narrowed eyes, "the aurors are taking care of it. You're not-"

"I need to see the weapons!" Thomas insisted as he slammed his palms on the table, "I _have_ to see the blades."

"Mills, this is the last time I am saying this," she persisted as she narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips at him, "the aurors are taking care of the transfer. You are not required."

Irritated at being deterred, and in a tight race against time, Thomas swiped out his wand and immediately cast a curse on her. As red mist shot out of the wand tip and enveloped them, the woman began gasping and shuddering. Gradually, her posture folded until she was squatting and whimpering gibberish before him. "Open the way for me to his blades," he ordered softly. His violet eyes watched her terrified frame struggle to reach for the keypad. Her trembling fingers input the codes slowly, and finally, the welcoming sounds of locks opening echoed in the reception. Thomas smiled as the door to the restricted corridor of confiscated artifacts swung open. "Thank you," he chuckled at the terrified witch, "let's release you from your nightmare." He waved his hand and opened his arms to wait for her to fall unconscious and into his arms. Carefully, he set her lying on the floor before he strode into the restricted area. He walked past all the closed doors, until he reached a door with a tag id and name.

Digging deep into one of his pockets, he pulled out a bottle and emptied the contents on his gloves. Spreading the salve generously on both hands, he breathed deeply and gripped the door handle firmly. Pulling it, he winced when the door groaned loudly but immediately, relief swept over his features when he saw the treasures the door was hiding. All seven of Dolohov's sacred blades were chained and kept in separate cases. It would be foolish for him to simply walk into the chamber. There was no doubt that there were traps lying hidden. Digging into his pocket, he searched for a tiny bottle of dust. He shook the bottle hard a few times, held his breath and opened it. He blew gently across the mouth of the bottle and watched the dust fly and scatter. Immediately, lines that were hidden before were revealed, tricky tiles with hidden runes appeared and Thomas sighed ruefully at the half-empty bottle. That was... nevermind, he would mourn the loss later. The bastard's cursed weapons were the priority. Carefully, he recapped the bottle and returned it into his pocket before he moved cautiously and swiftly into the room.

Pulling out his locket watch, he sighed at the time. Noon was a mere ten minutes away. He was certain they would be here before the ten minutes, and he needed to find a way to break the blades out. With the gloves, it was impossible for him to inspect the cases. As soon as his hand touched the surface of a case, all seven cases broke into smithereens and an alarm roared while the blades began shuddering forcefully against their chains. Thomas looked around him and snarled as rocks began falling from the ceiling. The chamber was quickly heating up. Thomas cursed as he released the blades, wrapped them in a magical cloth, before tossing them into another of his coat pockets. Certain that the items were secured, he swiftly moved towards the exit. Metals bars quickly appeared from above and below at the exit of the chamber, and he gritted his teeth. With the rocks still falling from the ceiling, and the exit blocked, fire was shooting rapidly out of the cracks on the floor.

"You want to stop the Jester, the master of fire?" Thomas sneered at the chaos around him, "That's poor joke." Pulling out the wand from his coat, he waved it above his head. A huge fire halo appeared above him, and from it, a beast made of flames came out. He directed the beast to the exit by pointing his wand tip in that direction. The fire falcon spun and flew swiftly past the chaos and raging inferno and crashed against the metal bars before it burnt the opposite door and disappeared into tiny ambers. Thomas smiled and walked out of the chamber in a barrier made of flames. As he jogged out of the dingy corridor, he was ambushed by spells. Pain jolted him and Thomas stopped momentarily to touch his face. The bridge of his nose, and his cheek were itching. Turning his head to the right and left, he sighed heavily when he saw the aurors approaching him.

All he wanted was to retrieve the weapons and those pesky aurors' details. Was that too much? Why did everyone have to try his patience today? Honestly, if he had been the sleeping Russian, he really would have turned the entire department into a slaughterhouse just for annoying him. Alas, he was not the meticulous bastard which was a pretty good reason why none of his plans, even the simplest, ever went down smoothly. Thomas scratched the back of his head, and dropped his shoulders.

"I really hate to do this," he groaned at the aurors who pointed their wands threateningly, "it's troublesome, cumbersome and just... too... darn... exhausting."

Swishing the wand, Thomas easily and tiredly cast the accursed death spell on the aurors and walked on without a glance as their bodies dropped like dead flies. Upon reaching the exit of the department of magical artifacts, he sighed even louder and rubbed his eyes, when he observed the crowd.

"Drop your wand, and hands in the air!"

Thomas stared at the commanding wizard and smiled cruelly. He raised the wand in the air, and quickly summoned a fire beast. A chimera made entirely of flames stood between Thomas and the crowd, and it released a deafening roar. Immediately, the crowd fired spells against the fiery spirit which simply swatted most of the spells away. As the beast kept the crowd busy, Thomas slipped away to a place he could hide momentarily to catch his breath. Summoning two fire spirits, and especially something as huge and mythical as the chimera, had taken quite a toll on him and he was running on an almost empty tank. It was obvious to him that he had been out of practice for a long time, or he had aged a little too much for his liking. Add to that, it was much too difficult to channel his magic through a defiant, rude and arrogant wand. Right now, it would be too troublesome, even for him, if he encountered a senior member of the Order. He needed to conserve as much energy as he could if he wanted to escape from here.

"Tom?"

Thomas blew angrily and tiredly through his nose as he opened his eyes and glared at the person who called him. She was a young woman, and if anything, she would be an easy bug to kill. She could not possibly be a member of the Order. He pointed the wand threateningly at her, and asked coldly, "What do you want?"

"Why are they chasing you? What did you do?"

Thomas was about to reply when a spell whizzed threateningly past his face. What was with the ministry and blasting at faces? Thomas snarled as another jolt of spell crashed into the space centimeters from him. As more spells came flying, he dodged and rolled, pulled the witch under him, shielded her and summoned a thick, impenetrable wall of fire. As shouts echoed in the corridor, and louder sound of galloping roared at that end of the corridor, Thomas winced. There was no way he was going to escape the horde by trading spells with them. He had to escape now. There was no shame in retreating now, especially when he had gotten everything he wanted.

Hands began pushing against him, and he blinked and stared at the scared woman beneath him. Immediately, he got off her, stood up and held a hand to her. As she held his hand and he helped her onto her feet, she stared deeply into his eyes. Curiosity and amazement shined in her eyes as Thomas looked at her warily and wearily. "Your eyes…" she began, "I didn't know you had unique eyes. They remind me of the eyes in my dreams."

"Don't tell me your prince charming has my eyes," Thomas quipped as he glanced at his broken sunglasses and walked away.

"No, not at all!" she retorted too quickly. "I don't know why but I always dream of them! My godfather said those eyes will protect me from death."

"Well, your godfather must have lied then."

"My godfather was an honest man! He was a powerful wizard!"

"What now?" Thomas asked sarcastically as he turned his head just enough to see the woman trailing after him, "You're going to volunteer me a sob story about your godfather?"

"They said he was killed…fighting the Great War. That's why I'm training my hardest to be an auror."

Thomas stopped walking to turn fully and regard her. There were many people he had killed but surely, he would remember killing someone who knew about his eyes. After all, his eyes were not always like this and only a handful knew the story behind his violet eyes. "What was his name?" Thomas asked softly.

Perhaps the woman did not hear him, because she continued without answering him. "My godfather fought the vicious Executioner and the Mad Jester and they said his body was never found."

Thomas kept quiet. A body never found did not necessarily mean a dead body. Perhaps her godfather escaped from Dolohov. Thomas tapped his temple as he mulled. If the bastard woke up with his memories and knowledge, there was no doubt they would be able to identify her godfather. After all, Dolohov had never forgotten his victims. He remembered all of them, and the ways of their deaths. Of course, he was not wondering about the godfather's identity because he was worried that a wizard managed to escape them but because, he was simply curious.

"Hey, who are you?"

Thomas blinked his eyes a couple of times before he stared at her. "I was listening," he defended himself as the woman who stared quizzically at him, "I was just thinking about who your godfather was."

"Yeah, well, I'm here wondering who you are. You're not Thomas Mills. _Who are you_?"

"I'm-"

"YAXLEY, YOU SCUM!"

"Oh ho..." Yaxley turned and quickly deflected against some of the spells that flew swiftly at him. A raging Alastor Moody stormed quickly as he continued throwing spells viciously. Yaxley moved backwards as he deflected the spells and sent a few of his own counters. When the woman was safely shielded behind Moody, the angry auror stopped and Yaxley heaved.

"I'LL KILL YOU!" Moody roared as he sent a powerful spell that Yaxley barely dodged by scampering to the side, "CRAWL LIKE THE WORM YOU ARE!"

"Time to go," Yaxley laughed as he blasted the wall behind him.

Just as he threw himself out, the woman screamed for him to stop. Moody and the woman watched as he fell through the air and burst into flames that gradually dispersed into ambers and then completely disappeared.

"Damn it!" Moody cursed as he pulled the woman away from the dangerous area and towards a safer place. He inspected her for wounds and heaved a sigh of relief. "He didn't hurt you, did he?" he asked carefully. If she had not suffered physical wounds, then she must have suffered some other wounds. There was absolute no way that Yaxley would leave her unharmed. That was unlike him… but what was normal of the Jester?

"No, no, he didn't," she murmured absently, "he saved me."

"He saved you?" Moody repeated incredulously, " _The Mad Jester saved you_?"

"He was the Mad Jester?" she asked, shocked and breathlessly, "He was the killer? He killed my godfather?"

"The one and only," Moody confirmed solemnly as he watched the woman features transformed from gratefulness to horror to anger. He knew the look. She was going to go after Yaxley and she would die. Closing his hand over hers, he looked deeply into her hurt and hateful blue eyes. "You are not strong enough to go after him, Tonks. He will kill you," Moody advised her firmly, before he helped her up. "Let's get you checked for other injuries."

"I'll show you," she swore under her breath, "I'll avenge you, godfather. I'll kill him so you can rest in peace."

* * *

Well, Yaxley the Fire Wizard has shown a little of his magic. Let me know what you think of that. On another note, I will be away for a while, so let's meet again in 2020! Until then, take care! Have an awesome (advanced) start to 2020!


	8. Chapter 7

A/N: Thank you for the support and reviews! Happy 2020!

nagi92: Regarding Tonks' godfather, clues of his identity will be littered over the course of this story.

* * *

A week and half passed since the Azkaban breakout, and closed grey eyes finally fluttered open. They roved around carefully and curiously took in the sight of the huge room that was painted in black and grey. Apart from the impressive collection of books, papers and scrolls that lined along the walls, and stacked from the floor until the ceiling, the room was sparsely furnished - an ancient square table that looked like it would shatter any moment took residence by a closed window, a pair of simple chairs and a chest at the foot of the bed.

Everything in the room was as he remembered. Nothing seemed to have been moved. A sigh that sounded more like a painful wheeze escaped his chapped lips as he closed his eyes contentedly and a faint smile curled weakly on his lips. He was safe, he was in haven. Weakly, he moved his fingers and breathed another contented sigh when they responded. It was good news at least that his muscles were not completely gone.

Mustering as much will and pain tolerance, he forced himself to wriggle out from under the heavy suffocating purple comforter and roll onto the floor. Very slowly, he crawled to the nearest bookshelf and painfully heaved himself onto his feet. Almost immediately, he leaned the entirety of his weight as he panted and squeezed his eyes.

Just as he was ready to take a tiny step towards the door that was a little too far away, a pair of small hands pressed gently but firmly enough against his trembling knees. Groaning loudly, he looked down at a pair of huge round eyes and overly large rabbit ears that was pressed against the back of a round head. "Potsie?" he rasped as he turned and pressed his entire back against the shelf, and gritted his teeth when he felt his legs trembling under him.

"Potsie is happy!" the elf chirped as she continued to look excitedly at him with her huge pair of watery eyes, "Grumpie Wizzie lives! Grumpie Wizzie remembers! Come, come! Potsie help!"

Instead of replying her, a sound that was a mixture of a frustrated grunt and a startled gasp croaked out from him as his legs suddenly gave out. He would have crumpled painfully onto the floor if the elf had not cast her magic to soften his fall. Lying on the floor face first, he whined frustrated as his body trembled weakly.

"Potsie help?"

He raised his chin high enough to look at her and huffed as he diverted his gaze. He was a death eater. He was a dark wizard who terrorized and killed hundreds. He was an expert duellist and yet... Humiliated, he shamefully nodded before he allowed his chin to drop. Holding onto one of his hands, she teleported them from the room into a dining room where she helped him into a seat and made sure he would not slide off the chair before she disappeared to the kitchen and reappeared with a tray. She presented him a bowl of green disgusting bubbling broth that looked more like the hot bile of a centaur and smelled like a dragon's dung. He turned to her with his lips twitching and his face twisted into a most disgusted expression. Potsie nodded vigorously and smiled a little too brightly to be friendly as she pushed the bowl closer to him. Dolohov was sure if anyone saw her now, they would never mistake her links to her roguish master. The way she was now was exactly how the prick would be when he was channelling the mad alchemist in him and experimenting new concoctions for his signature menu.

Dolohov sighed heavily as he silently prayed for his mortality and shakily dipped a spoon into the ... broth. Shutting his eyes, holding his breath and scrunching his face, he scooped a generous amount and forcefully shoved it into his mouth. Immediately, he shut his mouth and forcefully swallowed the thick liquid with huge chunks of unidentified ingredient as quickly as he could before he choked and spat all of it. As detestable as it was, Dolohov continued ploughing through as he force-fed himself spoonfuls of whatever it was until his bowl was clean.

Finally, he slumped over the table and smiled weakly in victory. Whoever created that was an excellent medi-witch or medi-wizard – his body hurt a lot less and he had felt a violent surge of vigour and new breath of vitality bursting through his veins. This was not a feat anyone would be able to create – it required high level of understanding of the ingredients. "Potsie," he called aloud as his eyes searched actively for the energetic house elf, "who made that… that _thing_?"

"Master!" she shrilled as she suddenly appeared beside him and cleared his bowl away and presented him with another repulsive thing – a tall glass of thick yellow liquid, "Master makes all! Genius Master! Grumpie Wizzie likes?"

Dolohov looked from her to the yellow liquid and winced. Anything from Corban would not kill him, that he was sure. The man had a divine green thumb and an unnatural acute and gifted connection with nature. If there was anyone in the world that Dolohov trusted to feed him, it was Yaxley. However, as well as that sounded, Yaxley had a mean streak for being a prick and concocting the filthiest things just because. Of course, all his inventions were edible in the sense that nobody would literally die but some of them were simply too despicably unpalatable.

Breathing in deeply, he held his breath as he readied himself to endure and overcome his second tribulation. He tilted the glass and swallowed the liquid as quickly as he could. "Do not puke, keep it all in," he mentally warned himself as he struggled to keep himself from gagging. If he were caught puking even a little, it meant another serving of whatever it was, so it was better to get it over once and for all. In that sense, Potsie was truly her master's most loyal subject – she could be as uncompromising and sadistic as her master.

Closing his eyes, Dolohov huffed and leaned his head back as he felt the powerful effects of his wicked meal. His strength was rapidly returning, his blood was roaring in his ears as he looked at his hands – his color had returned. As his hands patted his faces carefully, his lips curled into a contented smile. Gone were the hollow cheeks and chapped lips, and even his turbulent magic was humming more contentedly. The prick was truly blessed with an unmatched gift. "Where's Corban?"

"Master be meeting witch!" the elf giggled as she danced and skipped as she cleaned the room, "Master loving!"

Dolohov frowned as he tried recalling if there was any woman, except for that particular brunette, that had caught the prick's eye. It was unlikely for someone as deeply in love and committed to a woman for years as Yaxley to suddenly change his fancy. After all, Yaxley had rejected their plan at the last minute because of her. Perhaps, something did happen during the five years he was in Azkaban, and perhaps, Yaxley had finally moved on from her.

Dolohov huffed as he massaged his temple. What had happened in the five years? Could it be that Yaxley had finally understood and accepted that his unconditional affections was wasted on the woman? Did it mean that the Scottish prick had finally decided to harden his heart against her? Dolohov folded his arms as he closed his eyes and leaned into his seat as he continued mulling. If the woman had finally left her free rent in his mind and heart, who was the new woman who has taken over? Was the new woman worthy of unfaltering devotion? Would this mean a repeat of their earlier years? Was the lovesick fool doomed to gamble everything for women who would never love him as he did them?

Dolohov shook his head as he sighed heavily and hung his head. Truthfully, it did not matter who Yaxley was devoted to or what his desires were. The only thing that truly mattered was Yaxley's commitment to their mission. With Dolohov's magic still turbulent and erratic because of the Dark Lord's curse, Dolohov needed the prick to focus until, at the very least, his lordship returned to his former glory or their years of excruciatingly detailed plans would be all for naught.

"I'll be in the study if you require me," Dolohov told the dancing house elf that did not seem as if she heard him. He sighed, shook his head and quietly climbed the stairs to make his way to Yaxley's study.

Once he was there, he summoned a stack of parchments and envelops, and enchanted quills. As the quills began scratching his letters, Dolohov walked around the table and touched the heavy curtains. If his memories were to be believed, Dolohov had no recollection of his best friend ever closing the curtains. The prick had always enjoyed the sun lighting the room, and the expansive view of his compound. It was a peaceful beauty that he had claimed only true herbologists could admire wholly and openly.

Dolohov frowned as the feeling of caution and hesitation arose in him. It was strange that he would be wary of opening the curtains. After all, what was so precious outside the four walls of the Hall that the prick wanted to hide it behind the curtain? Tightening his grip on the curtains, he very carefully drew them and stared at the scene outside.

Nothing outside was as he remembered them to be. What should have been a healthy beautiful flower field was now a ghastly field of wilted crumpled brown plants with many bald spots. Grass that used to be short and green were now almost too tall, unmanaged and yellow. Even the hall was wrapped with thick thorned vines. Dolohov ran his finger gently on a thorn and stared at the massive monstrous trees behind the wicked field. Those trees used to be huge welcoming shades; now they stood like unruly, defiant and dangerous warriors whose duty was to act as barricade to a forbidden haunted forest.

Dolohov sighed heavily and shook his head. "In the five years, what happened here, Corban?" he murmured as he looked at the setting sun a little distracted. He rested his head against the window frame and closed his eyes. It was a little too disconcerting for him that things he had hoped would not change had changed so drastically, and things he had hoped to happen still had not happen. It was almost as if he had stepped into a world that no longer had space for him. Was society telling him that his existence was redundant? That his escape from Azkaban meant nothing? How could that be? He was one of the most feared wizards in the last decade. On some occasions, he was even dubbed to be the true epitome of Death by both enemies and allies alike. How could he ever be considered inconsequential?

No, of course not. They had forgotten him. They had chosen to assume the gates of Azkaban would lock him in forever. They had believed the peace was true. They had taken the fall of the Dark Lord as the gospel. They believed. How utterly foolish. He had defied all of their assumptions and he would rise steadily. It would be too fast for them, and all too soon, they would reawaken the instinct - to tremble and surrender in his presence.

Dolohov reopened his steel-coloured eyes and gone were the wariness. Cold arrogance and apathy filled those orbs as they gazed at the orange sky. Summoning his stack of written letters, he held them in one hand while he pushed open the window with his free hand. Throwing the papers outside, he watched with indifference as a flock of birds swoped down and each bird captured a letter in its beak. As soon as he commanded them to deliver, the birds squawked in a singular loud sound and they flew swifly into the sunset. Dolohov watched their silhouettes disappear with a cold smile.

The addressees would see his seal, and they would remember the horror that was him. With that too, shall spell the end of this peace. All of who shall stand in his way to the Dark Lord will not be forgiven, and so they shall be looked at without mercy. Those amongst them who had dared to betray his lordship would certainly meet their judgement. Dolohov was sure it was only a matter of time before the war that was never over would resume.

 _Soon, very soon, the world shall tremble._

* * *

Just an hour before Dolohov had finally regained consciousness, Yaxley had disapparated from his home to a little town. The smell of freshly baked bread permeated the air as he walked the busy streets. There were modest shops for men's wear and dresses, and daily robes. There were also shops for books and school supplies, a library and a wandmaker shop. It was a quaint town – the sort where everyone knew everyone, and a traveler was easily spotted. Smiling lightly, he nodded at everyone who stopped and stared at him as he made his way into one of the small restaurants.

Standing at the entrance, he glanced at every patron before he smiled just a little wider when he spotted a beautiful woman in a pink dress. Her long blond hair tied in a loose ponytail, and her fringe falling gently over one side of her face. Her lips were painted a demure pink. She stood up and smiled when she noticed him walking towards her.

Taking her hand gently in his, Yaxley placed a light chaste kiss on the back of her palm before helping her back into her seat. "Ms Williamson, did you wait long?" he asked as he smiled charmingly as he took off his spectacles and flipped the menu, "I must apologize for my lateness. It is good, however, to finally meet you after a couple of delightful exchanges."

A week ago, she had been surprised to receive a private letter from a man who revealed himself to be her husband's superior. In that letter, he detailed about Peter's performance at work and wanted to discuss with her about Peter's abilities to perform at a higher standard should he be promoted. One letter turned into many letters over the week as she continued corresponding with him and agreed that their discussion be kept a secret. After all, she understood that revealing their connections might ruin Peter's chances of promoting to Senior Auror because everyone would have easily misunderstood that Corban Altair was bias when in fact, he simply wanted to get to know his subordinates better.

"It's fine, Mr Altair and likewise, it's a pleasure to finally see you too," she waved his apology away as she delicately summoned a wait staff, "I must recommend their pastries! They're a savory delight!"

As the pair was served their order, Yaxley took a polite bite of his cake and hummed, "Your taste is exquisite, Ms Will-"

"Please call me, Mary," she insisted and Yaxley was more than willing to comply. As they continued to inane conversation, her shoulders relaxed as she began to enter a comfortable feeling around her husband's superior.

"Mary, tell me, has Peter been a good husband to you?" Yaxley asked curiously as he rested his arms on the table and leaned in.

Mary smiled shyly as she diverted her eyes away. Mr Altair was truly unlike most men in their town – he was straightforward, attentive, considerate and delightfully intelligent and charming. What was he trying to achieve by asking her this? Was he hinting at a possibility of her running away with him and leaving Peter behind? Clearing her throat as delicately as she could, she raised her chin to look at him in the eyes. When she saw her reflection in his eyes and she frowned just a little. It had to be her imagination and a trick of the light that his eyes had turned a few shades darker and malice seemed to dance in place of the friendly twinkles. She closed her eyes and swallowed the lump that had gathered in her throat, before she timidly peeked at his strange eyes. They had returned to the state she was comfortable and found to be most dazzling. She breathed a sigh of relief as she reopened her eyes fully. Of course, it had to be a trick of the light – it was unfathomable that the charming gentleman could be vicious.

"Mr Altair, I have a son and Peter is kind to me," she whispered as she noticed the corners of his lips curled just a little more. Mr Altair was truly unlike the men she had known in her life – he was able to take rejection gracefully if his kind smile was anything to go by.

"Your son, how old is he?" Yaxley asked as he smiled softly and gently.

"Dylan is seven years old, and he looks just like his father," she answered proudly as her eyes twinkled and she showed Yaxley a picture of her family of three. As she continued babbling about her son, Yaxley continued listening attentively before his attention was stolen by a patron with a strikingly familiar face leaving. Yaxley turned his head to take a better look at the hooded patron's face but the patron had already disappeared.

"Perhaps Mary, we should meet another time," Yaxley interrupted her as he quickly finished his drink and food and made a deliberate show of reading his watch as he rose from his seat, "with your husband and son as well, of course."

"Peter will be taking leave from his work in a few days," she tapped her chin as she opened and stared at her schedule, "perhaps you could have dinner with us at our house then?"

"That would be lovely," Yaxley agreed easily as he paid their meals while she wrote her address on a piece of paper to him, "I shall see you soon then." Looking at a point just beyond her head, he caught sight of a hooded person. "I would like to caution you," he dragged on a little distractedly as he followed the hooded person with his eyes and blinked when the person disappeared around the corner and returned his attention to the woman in front of him. "This is a dangerous world; not everyone is as kind as me. For your son's and your sake, I hope you do not open your doors to strangers."

Shea stared at him for a moment before she waved away his advice with a serene smile, "There are no strangers here; only old and new friends."

"That's a fine dream," Yaxley chuckled as he helped her into her coat, kissed the back of her palm lightly and watched her leave. He waited until her retreating form was far away enough before he turned the other direction. Now that he had found one of them, it would be easier to get to the other.

Yaxley stared at the address and committed it to memory. Just as he was about to burn the paper away, a huge eagle glided past him and dropped a letter before it disappeared past the clouds. He stared at the addressee and address, and flipped the envelope to see the seal. It had been years since he saw the seal and who could blame him for his delight? This was something he had been agonizing over for years and the loneliness was finally lifting. The bastard was finally awake! If he was able to write, perhaps, Potsie had fed him the concoctions he created but even then, Yaxley hoped his little elf had endeavored to keep the bastard in bed. As good as his food were, there was no chance he could reverse the effects of years of decay with just one meal. Given these circumstances, it would make little sense to agitate the poor wizard. Perhaps, it would be best if he simply pretended he did not know and burnt the letter along with the piece of paper Mary Williamson gave him. Just as his fingertip glowed, he had to somersault and dodge a spell that struck the spot he had been just seconds ago. Turning his head around, his eyes narrowed as he finally spotted the hooded figure on the roof.

 _Annoying._

As another spell came rushing towards him, Yaxley flicked out his wand and fired his own offensive spell. As the spells clashed, a shockwave erupted and blew a few bricks from the roofs of nearby shops. Quickly, without hesitation, he fired a multitude of spells including one that caused the assailant to fall from the roof and a sound that resembled a painful feminine whine echoed in the air. As he leisurely closed the distance between them, he smirked when she quickly scrambled to her knees and pointed her wand shakily at him. With quick lazy wand flicks, he easily disarmed her before she could begin to cast a spell. With another lazy flick, he cast his signature spell and a dark red mist spurted out of his wand's tip and surrounded them. Phantom hands quickly formed within the red mist and kept her in her kneeling position.

"Child's play," Yaxley chuckled as he covered his mouth and shook his head while he coldly observed the struggling hooded girl. "You should know better than to _try_ ambushing a Death Eater."

As the hooded girl continued to squirm against the hands, Yaxley raised an eyebrow as he followed the direction of where her head struggled to move towards. His lips puckered as he breathed amusedly and silkily, "Oh, ho… this must be really precious, no?" He rolled the stray wand gently away from under his shoe and smiled devilishly. He pointed his wand and looked at her half-face mask and the obvious tear trails. Slowly, mockingly, he slowly disintegrated her wand with a curse he had created with Dolohov. As fresh tears flowed more freely, her head hung and sobs wrecked her frame. "When kids don't know how to handle their toys, I've to take them away," he chuckled as his lips curled into a cruel cold smile and his violet eyes danced with cruel delight, "Now, let's see who you are." Nudging her chin up roughly with the toe of his shoe, he flicked his wrist as he cast a revealing spell that blew the hood away and shattered the mask.

"You!" Yaxley laughed as amusement danced in his eyes. "So we meet again; quite the misfortune for you." As terror continued growing in her eyes, he smiled a little sharper. She had seen him, attempted to duel him; so, it was time for her to die. As his magic spilled out of his pores, she struggled helplessly against his phantom hands. Fear tightened her its hold on her heart, and her instinct to flee became stronger. As her heart continued pumping erratically, and her blood roaring in her ears, her magic began awakening its defensive mechanism. _She needed to escape._

Her blond hair slowly but surely transformed into long dark blond, wavy hair, and her brown eyes changed into a _familiar_ pair of eyes. Immediately, Yaxley stumbled backwards and fell as if he had been delivered a powerful sucker punch and his throat felt painfully parched. His heart thundered as he stared at her mutely. Her face had changed to someone too familiar, and the eyes… it was nauseating. "You…those eyes," he whispered hoarsely as he stared at her as if she were a ghost. " _Who are you?_ "

"Stay away from me!"

" _You're her daughter..?_ _"_ Yaxley asked a little bewildered and a little too breathlessly. Of course she had to be her daughter! Why else would she look like her mother? "Let me help you." He quickly dispersed his spell, stood up and held an open-palmed hand out to her.

"Don't touch me!" she spat as she struggled backwards and away from his offending hand. Her eyes blazed with vicious vengeance and stubborn defiance. Her eyes were the same as her mother's on the night when madness reigned… it was nauseating. _Too nauseating._

Yaxley reluctantly withdrew his trembling hand, took his spectacles off and clenched it by his side while his free hand wiped her spit off his face. Swallowing thickly, he looked at a point behind her almost as if he was too afraid to look into her eyes and asked catiously and slowly, "Is your mother… is she ali- I mean, is she well?"

"Leave her out of this! You murderer! I won't let you kill her like you killed my godfather! Monster!"

Yaxley stared at her mutely before he closed his eyes as shook his head tiredly. "You look nothing like your father," he chuckled bitterly that sounded like a mournful laugh to his own ears as he dusted his knees and, slowly and tiredly stood up, "but you have the same stupidity as him… a trait she is foolishly fond of and one I lack." Sighing heavily, he turned away from her and forced himself to walk away. He would not fight her.

"Don't turn your back on me, Mad Jester!"

"You're too young to fight a death eater, _child_ ," he scoffed but it had sounded too weak and soft to his ears, "never mind the Dark Lord's Jester." If anything, it sounded like a plea for her to understand and heed his advice. "Your mother would not want that life for you," he whispered as he tightened his fists and forcefully walked away, "never in this lifetime."

"Don't talk as if you know her!"

"Oh, but I know her very well," Yaxley murmured as he stopped walking and frowned a little when his vision of the evening sky began to blur, "so very well. Looking at you feels almost like I'm looking at her."

 _Don't come after me._

"I'll kill you!"

Sighing loudly and forlornly, he closed his eyes as he intercepted the fist that was rushing towards his left cheek. Chucking his spectacles into one of his pants pockets, he quickly returned her punch and sent her crashing into some discarded crates. Huffing, he stalked towards her as he lifted her by her neck with his left hand and slammed her into the wall. She gasped loudly as he strangled her just a little harder while his right hand grabbed her left wrist to slam it just beside her face. "Don't force me to kill you," he snarled furiously as he watched her eyes rolling backwards and her lips turning pale, "don't make me break her heart _again_."

 _Don't turn me into a monster._

Releasing his hold on her, Yaxley dropped her amongst the crates as he stormed to the apparition zone. He would not, should not turn around even as her painful whimpers echoed in the evening air, and even though his heart felt a little too strange – _too constricted_ – to be comfortable.

Upon reaching the apparition zone, he stared at where she was for a long time. Closing his eyes, he sighed heavily and drew hasty wand movements. A humonguous white sigil brightened the night sky above her. "Mercy doesn't visit the same home too often, so don't come after me, little one," he sighed as he disapparated home.

 _Because I'll have to kill you._

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I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. If there is anything you want an answer to, or you would like to read, let me know. Once again, happy 2020!


	9. Chapter 8

A/N: Thanks for all the support and reviews!

zemblenity, Blue-10-Spades: Hermione will not feature for at least 2 more chapters.

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Yaxley arrived at his hall and immediately and swiftly made his way to his study where he locked himself in and pointedly ignored the man by the fireplace. Quickly, he poured himself shot after shot, he consumed them easily and without reservation. Who would have thought that a harmless ploy of retrieving an address would turn into a surreal joke of the past, a mockery of his buried fantasies?

He needed to forget everything he saw in the evening. The startled look. The beautiful dark eyes. The red lips. The high cheekbones. He needed to forget the young woman. He needed to forget who he thought she looked similar to. If only he had left after he got what he came for… If he had simply ignored the roaring curiosity in his head…

 _If… should have…_

There were many things he should have done, but… At least for now, he knew she was still alive but what good was that knowledge? The last time he visited her, many years ago, she had spat at him like the young woman had. That night he had come to offer her a way out, protection and security and a life away from war – a life of peace. He had come with those promises only to be banished from her life. He had asked – _implored_ – her to reconsider but her eyes had blazed with immeasurable contempt and anger – and even as they glared viciously at him, he still found them beautiful and lovely – and she had promised to kill him if their paths should cross. That night, she fled with them and…

 _I still…_

A hand covered Yaxley's eyes as his head was slowly pushed back until it leaned against the back of his chair. "Why…? Why couldn't it be me?" he slurred as he clenched his hands into fists and yet, they still trembled violently, "It hurts inside, bastard. It hurts so badly. _My heart hurts_."

Dolohov hummed as he kept his hand over Yaxley's eyes and pretended he did not see nor feel the trail of tears. How many years had it been? For a man with a malicious streak like Yaxley to be reduced into this state because of a woman; was this how deadly the power of love could be? Was this the same soul-binding spell that caused the Dark Lord's demise? No, it was impossible for the Dark Lord to be enamored and weakened by a new-born. Perhaps, a different type of love or something entirely different? A cosmic law of life – the hero lives for as long as the villain does, and therefore the boy lives for as long as the Dark Lord does. Even so, love was such a complicated notion that he had not yet understood in its most fundamental forms, never mind its most complex. However, if love was truly such a deadly power, perhaps, it would be best and most wise for him to steer as far away as he could from it. What use would he be to the Dark Lord if he was rendered incapable every time love infected him?

As the tear trails slowly petered and began drying, Dolohov slowly removed his hand. He glanced at the gaunt and depressed face and sighed inwardly. "How was your day?" he asked casually as he surveyed the books on the shelf and kept his back to the heartbroken man, "You've funneled a good deal of firewhiskey into your system."

"Shut it. We've all got our tired days," Yaxley huffed tiredly without malice. Rubbing his face, he wiped the tear stains from his face and sighed. Luckily for him, it was Dolohov who was here. Any other wizard or witch would have mocked him, but not Dolohov. Never his best friend. Yaxley dug into coat pockets, and finally withdrew a black wand and placed it on the table. "If your wand had been a little more amicable, I would've been less stressed."

"My apologies, Corban," Dolohov chuckled as he spun around to pick up the wand to inspect it. "However, I'm most surprised you've still got your hands," he murmured as he felt his magic humming and flowing towards the wand as if the wood was an extension of his limb, "the last time someone tried to use, they lost an arm."

"Sarcastic bastard, keep your apologies if you're not sincere," Yaxley scoffed as he rolled his eyes at the Russian man who had chosen to sit on the window sill and caress the wood. Had he been someone else, he would have gagged at the obvious tenderness and affection. This was one of the Dark Lord's most savage and wicked wizards and yet, here he was sitting calmly and whispering sweet nothings and apologies to a dead wood. Yaxley shook his head as he closed his eyes. They were hurting and burning more than usual. Perhaps, he had not fully recovered from last week's infiltration into the ministry.

"You know that I'm always genuine when it comes to you, don't you?" Dolohov teased.

"I'm getting goosebumps," Yaxley laughed lightly as he rubbed his arms feverishly. "Your flirting is as terrifying as that moron who tried to steal an unyielding wand from a good duel-wizard."

Dolohov smiled a little as he recalled the dramatic incident. It would have been unbelievable had he not experienced it for himself. His wand had almost single-handedly destroyed their senior. It was at that moment that Dolohov was sure that his wand was an extension of him – his personality, his drive, his menace, his principles… everything that was him flowed within the wood. His wand, like his familiar, was a bit part of his soul. If he had not believed that wands contained spirits, he was a believer since then.

Dolohov watched the Scot dug blindly around the table and the drawers until he took out a jar of salve. He fumbled a little with a jar's cap before he applied the white salve generously on his eyes. Immediately, the blonde moaned aloud and Dolohov choked on his laughter in his attempt to contain it. "Wow Corban, I never knew you could sound like a dying whale!" he wheezed as he struggled to contain the grin on his face. Hilarity was dancing in his grey eyes and they brightened even more when Yaxley flicked a finger.

Gradually, his amusement mellowed until he was just smiling at the Scottish wizard. If this was a different time, Dolohov would have admitted aloud that he missed this. This was exactly how they used to be. This was how they would have passed the time when they were in school and they were simply not in the mood to do anything but to laze around. This was how they tried to keep the other sane during the war, especially during the heights of the war when slipping into madness and bloodlust were so simple and convenient. This was who they were as orphans, as boys who never really grew up. Trolling and bantering each other, laughing and just living in the moment instead of staying alert and wary of their surroundings. This was…

Dolohov shook his head. There was more important things to do than to tease and mess around with Corban. He touched his wand carefully and raised it against the light to inspect it better. After a few acute observations, he brought the wand to his lips and he kissed it lightly. "No one will ever use you again, I promise," he apologized softly. As if the wand had accepted his apology, purple sparks spurted out of its tip.

"Looks like all is forgiven," Yaxley mocked with his eyes closed. He did not have to open his eyes to check on his best friend. Dolohov had always thought it necessary to apologize to his possessions, especially those he deemed to be useful. "Put the foul-tempered stick away, Antonin. I've enough traumas as it is; don't need that to add to the list," Yaxley deadpanned as he moved his hands over his face to clean the stray blood trails. For as long as he could remember since his mastery over the fire elemental magic, his eyes would hurt as if they were burning. Cooling them with the salve he made from fairy dust, unicorn tears and murlock goo seemed to work but they would always leave his eyes bleeding for a while.

Dolohov laughed softly as he slowly looked up. With the wand twirling carelessly in his wand, he asked curiously, "Do you feel threatened, Corban?"

Slowly, Yaxley reopened his watery-eyes and turned his head to look into grey orbs. "Do I have a reason to be?" he challenged with a gentle smile that was more malicious than friendly.

Dolohov stared at the violet eyes. He would not be fooled by the teary eyes. If anything, the shade of the eyes was always the true measure of Yaxley's seriousness. Dolohov slowly closed his eyes and shook his head. "No, you have no reason to be," he hummed with a smile and carefully tucked his wand away, "we are not enemies."

"But are we on the same side?" Yaxley mused aloud as he slowly rose to his seat and took deliberately small steps to cover the distance between them. Very slowly, almost as if taunting, he fished out a sealed letter from inside his coat waved it a little as if to straighten it a little. He took a long mocking look at it. Raising his eyes to lock with grey eyes, he sneered as he read the address aloud, "Winchester, London. Hermione Granger. Do you want to explain?"

Dolohov shrugged helplessly as he puffed and blew his cheeks out. "What does it look like?" he deadpanned.

"I'm asking _why_ ," Yaxley growled with obvious restrain as he crushed the letter in his fist, "What reason could a death eater have to write to a child? A _muggle_ child!"

"I'm taught to repay kindness."

"She is muggle born! A _mudblood_!" he snarled every word viciously and exasperated at the dispassionate face of the Russian wizard. He rubbed his face in frustration, slammed the crumpled letter on the table in disgust and burnt it with a quick spell just for added assurance that the offending item would never see the light of another day. "She is undeserving to walk among us – letting her live another day is kindness enough!"

"Admittedly; and you've shown her kindness and mercy," Dolohov agreed easily as he closed his eyes, and leaned against the window and crossed his arms. After a moment, he sighed softly and slowly reopened his eyes to observe the furious violet eyes. No, not fury but… something different. Exasperation? Dolohov felt the corner of his eye twitch as he narrowed his eyes just a little. Very softly, he continued as he watched the usually carefree man through suspicious narrowed eyes, "I, however, still remain in her debt. Now that you've burnt the letter, I've to recompose another one. Honestly Yaxley, this is troubling me unnecessarily."

"Don't change the topic, _Antonin_ ," Yaxley growled deeply even as he noticed the flickers of irritation in the grey eyes. "Exactly what is your idea of payment?"

Dolohov raised an eyebrow in mock incredulity even as he bit the tip of his tongue to manage his irritation better. There was a warning in Yaxley's words that Dolohov knew. He had better thread carefully or things could turn very ugly, and someone was definitely meeting their maker tonight. However, as it stood, he was usually always the one in control. He was always the one with the upper hand. After all, where Yaxley's trigger points were obvious, his were still a mystery to most. This, alone, was enough to tip the advantage, however marginal, in his favor.

Dolohov allowed himself a knowing sly smirk, pushed himself off the window and stood to his full height. He stared meaningfully into violet eyes and smiled a little more menacingly. That woman and anyone directly associated to her had always been enough to trigger Yaxley; and Dolohov wanted, almost a little too desperate, to know if anything dramatic had changed during the time he was in Azkaban. He took a breath and released it "Exactly what you offered Narcissa Malfoy, I'm sure," he spoke deliberately and slowly, and took extra care to pronounce her name very, very precisely.

 _Are you still the same?_

Yaxley clenched his fists tighter, his knuckles quickly turning white and blood sliding off his palm. His teeth grounded painfully tight as he looked away from Dolohov whose eyes were no doubt laughing at his misery. Almost patronizingly, Dolohov patted Yaxley's shoulder, squeezed it once in mock comfort before he excused himself. Before Dolohov could take more than two steps away, a bone crushing grip held onto his elbow stopped him in his step. Dolohov looked over his shoulder and down at the death grip before raising a quizzical eyebrow at the blonde. "Remember your role," Yaxley hissed as he squeezed the elbow once more just for good measure, "don't fraternize with the enemy."

The chandelier above them swayed dangerously, casting moving shadows across the floor and on the walls. The cold fireplace suddenly began sparking as the magic tension between the men began picking up. Dolohov covered Yaxley's wrist and squeezed it just as tightly as Yaxley did to his elbow while he whispered softly, venom seeping into his voice, "Naturally, I never forget my allegiance."

"Nobody here is doubting your loyalty," Yaxley countered just as ferociously, "but _feelings cloud judgement_."

"I hear you; after all, you would know that very well."

Immediately, the fireplace exploded with uncontrollable blaze that began licking the furniture surrounding the fireplace. The lights on the chandelier flickered erratically as the windows burst open and strong cold wind swept and swirled around the wizards. Books flew off their shelves and gathered around the men in a maelstrom. "Bastard." The single word while spoken quietly and harshly seemed to echo loudest in the chaos. Dark violet eyes that held depths of fury met cold grey eyes that boast its own impressive depths of fury. A second more, and Yaxley folded his hand into a gun and pressed his finger against Dolohov's temple. Simultaneously, the Russian wizard had trained his wand to stab painfully against Yaxley's neck. Shame and fury swirled in a maelstrom in those violet eyes, and it met its match in the silent cold fury that swirled in deep grey eyes.

"Infe"

"Ici-"

Just before one of them could complete their spell incantation, Potsie popped and easily sliced through the aggressive chaos effectively dispelling the murderous atmosphere as if it were never there. The house elf looked from one man to the other who had dropped their wand hand limply before she looked at the aftermath of the rage, and she puffed her cheeks. Quickly, she rushed to her master, pulled him into a seat and checked him once over while the black-haired wizard leaned against the table and breathed a little harder. Satisfied that her master was fine, she asked him hopefully, "Would Master like dinner? Potsie make dinner!" Yaxley nodded his head, believing his voice would croak and rasp instead of its usual smooth timber. Potsie cast Dolohov a glance that was almost a little too motherly before she returned her attention to her master and asked in a voice that barely masked hope, "Grumpy Wizzie be joining?" Yaxley glanced at the Russian wizard before he nodded again and waved his hand to dismiss the elf which disappeared with a pop.

Gripping the arms of the chair tightly, Yaxley huffed and panted while forcing his body to calm down. He was sure if Potsie had not appeared when she did, he was very certain the study would not still be here and both of them would be invalid for a long time. They were so close to viciously dueling it out and over what? An old wound. Yaxley shook his head and peeked through his messy fringe to look at the recomposed Dolohov who was rotating his wrist and fixing the room to its former state.

"Have you finally caught your breath?" Dolohov asked as he walked towards Yaxley after he was satisfied with his work, "That was some tantrum, brother."

"Speak for yourself," Yaxley snorted.

"Yes, I am the one with the vicious temper," Dolohov surrendered easily in between chuckles as he turned away to leave. He did not have to turn around to know his closest friend was chuckling as well. This was them. This was their exclusive bond that no one could ever threaten to join, much less destroy. Almost as if he suddenly remembered something important, he paused in his step to look over his shoulder and asked, "How's the little boy?"

"A man now if he's still alive," Yaxley answered easily without batting an eyelid. The little boy had gone his own way after he graduated from Hogwarts. Of course, Yaxley was more than willing to let him go. After all, the Scottish wizard was never a fan of holding people against their wills – he would very much rather deliver their desires. That also meant, any desire spoken without specifics gave him the freedom to interpret them as he desired, and that often ended up with his victims suffering for their own desires.

"Are you hiding him, _Corban_?"

"Am I?" Yaxley echoed with a smile as he relaxed his posture to lean further into his seat. "You wanted him to graduate, I ensured that. I can tell you he did not do exceedingly well but good enough that he won't embarrass you."

"I see," Dolohov hummed as he closed his eyes and turned away from his best friend. "Now that he's no longer the little boy," he spoke softly as he slowly reopened his eyes, "I no longer need to hold back. It's time to _finally_ put an end to the game."

"You saved him from the flames just to kill him slowly," Yaxley laughed as he stood up and walked until he stood beside the grey-eyed wizard. "You're a sick bastard."

"I've never denied that."

"When will you ever change your ways?" Yaxley teased as he left the room, "One day, you're going to regret not trying to be the good guy. See you at dinner, brother."

Dolohov watched the Scot's retreating back with a small smile. "If only..."

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